ppr          — ^ 

§ 


EAST 


ANGEL 


GIFT  OF 


EAST  ANGELS 


BY 


CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "ANNE"  "FOR  THE  MAJOR"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1886 


CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSOFS  WORKS. 


EAST  ANGELS.  A  Novel.  16mo, 
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PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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Copyright,  1884,  1885,  1886,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


EAST    ANGELS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"I  THINK,  more  than  anything  else,  I  came  to  be  under 
blue  sky." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  sky  ?"  said  the  young  girl  who  was 
sitting  near  the  speaker,  her  eyes  on  the  shimmering  water 
of  the  lagoon  which  stretched  north  and  south  before  the 
house. 

"I  can't  lay  claim  to  tastes  especially  celestial,  I  fear," 
answered  the  visitor,  "  but  I  confess  to  a  liking  for  an  ex 
istence  which  is  not,  for  six  months  of  the  year,  a  combat. 
I  am  mortally  tired  of  our  long  northern  winters,  with  their 
eternal  processions  of  snow,  ice,  and  thaw — thaw,  ice,  and 
snow;  I  am  tired  of  our  springs  —  hypocritical  sunshine 
pierced  through  and  through  by  east  winds ;  and  I  have  at 
last,  I  think,  succeeded  in  breaking  loose  from  the  belief 
that  there  is  something  virtuous  and  heroic  in  encountering 
these  things — encountering  them,  I  mean,  merely  from  habit, 
and  when  not  called  to  it  by  any  necessity.  But  this  eman 
cipation  has  taken  time  —  plenty  of  it.  It  is  directly  at 
variance  with  all  the  principles  of  the  country  and  creed  in 
which  I  was  brought  up." 

"  You  have  good  health,  Mr.  "Winthrop  2"  asked  Mrs. 
Thome,  in  a  tone  which  was  prepared  to  turn  with  equal 
appreciation  towards  sympathy  if  he  were,  and  congratula 
tion  if  he  were  not,  the  possessor  of  the  lungs  which  classify 
a  person,  and  give  him  an  occupation  for  life. 

"Do  I  look'delicate?" 


Jo  ok.' remarkably  well,"  answered 
his  hostess,  sure  of  her  ground  here,  since  even  an  invalid 
likes  to  be  congratulated  upon  an  appearance  of  health  :  not 
only  is  it  more  agreeable  in  itself,  but  it  gives  him  the  op 
portunity  to  explain  (and  at  some  length)  that  all  is  illusory 
merely,  a  semblance ;  an  adjustment  of  the  balances  between 
resignation  and  heroism  which  everybody  should  admire. 
"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Thome  went  on,  with  a  critical  air  which  seemed 
to  say,  as  she  looked  at  him,  that  her  opinions  were  found 
ed  upon  unprejudiced  scrutiny,  "  wonderfully  well,  indeed — 
docs  he  not,  Garda  ?" 

"  Mr.  Winthrop  looks  well ;  I  don't  know  that  it  is  a 
wonder,"  replied  Edgarda  Thorne,  in  her  soft  voice.  "He 
has  been  everywhere,  and  seen  everything,"  she  added,  turn 
ing  her  eyes  towards  him  for  a  moment — eyes  in  which  he 
read  envy,  but  envy  impersonal,  concerning  itself  more  with 
his  travels,  his  knowledge  of  many  places,  his  probable  ad 
ventures,  than  with  himself. 

"  Mr.  Winthrop  is  accustomed  to  a  largeness  of  oppor 
tunity,"  remarked  Mrs.  Thorne;  "but  it  is  his  natural  at 
mosphere."  She  paused,  coughed  slightly,  and  then  added, 
"  He  does  not  come  into  the  ports  he  enters  with  banners 
flying,  with  rockets  and  cannon,  and  a  brass  band  at  bow 
and  stern." 

"  You  describe  an  excursion  steamer  on  the  Fourth  of 
July,"  said  Winthrop.  -( 

"Precisely.  One  or  two  of  the  persons  who  have  visited 
Gracias-a-Dios  lately  have  seemed  to  us  not  unlike  that," 
answered  the  lady. 

Mrs.  Thorne  had  a  delicate  little  voice,  pitched  on  rather 
a  high  key,  but  so  slender  in  volume  that,  like  the  pure 
small  note  of  a  little  bird,  it  did  not  offend.  Her  pronun 
ciation  was  very  distinct  and  accurate — that  is,  accurate  ac 
cording  to  the  spelling;  they  knew  no  other  methods  in 
the  conscientious  country  school  where  she  had  received  her 
education.  Mrs.  Thorne  pronounced  her  t  in  "often,"  her 
I  in  "almond,"  her  "again"  rhymed  with  "plain." 

"Did  you  mean  that  you,  too,  would  like  to  go  everywhere 
and  sec  everything,  Miss  Thorne  ?"  said  Evert  Winthrop,  ad 
dressing  the  daughter.  "  T  assure  von  it's  dull  work." 


EAST  ANGELS.  5 

"  Naturally — after  one  has  had  it  all."  She  spoke  with 
out  again  turn  ing-  her  eves  towards  him. 

"  We  are  kept  here  by  circumstances,"  observed  Mrs. 
Thome,  smoothing  the  folds  of  her  black  gown  with  her 
little  withered  hand.  "I  do  not  know  whether  circum 
stances  will  ever  release  us — I  do  not  know.  But  we  are 
not  unhappy  meanwhile.  'We  have  the  old  house,  with  its 
many  associations;  we  have  our  duties  and  occupations; 
and  if  not  frequent  amusement,  we  have  our  home  life,  our 
few  dear  friends,  and  our  affection  for  each  other." 

"  All  of  them  crowned  by  this  same  blue  sky  which  Mr. 
Winthrop  admires  so  much,"  added  Garda. 

"I  see  that  you  will  always  hold  me  up  to  ridicule  on 
account  of  that  speech,"  said  Winthrop.  "  You  are  simply 
tired  of  blue.  As  a  contrast  you  would  welcome,  I  dare 
say,  the  dreariest  gray  clouds  of  the  New  England  coast, 
and  our  east  wind  driving  in  from  the  sea." 

"I  should  welcome  snow,"  answered  Garda,  slowly;  "all 
the  country  covered  with  snow,  lying  white  and  dead — that 
is  what  I  wish  to  see.  I  want  to  walk  on  a  frozen  lake 
with  ice,  real  ice  over  deep  water,  under  my  feet.  I  want 
to  breathe  freezing  air,  and  know  how  it  feels.  I  want  to 
see  trees  without  any  leaves  on  them  ;  and  a  snow-storm 
when  the  flakes  are  very  big  and  soft  like  feathers;  and 
long  icicles  hanging  from  roofs ;  and  then,  to  hear  the  wind 
whistle  round  the  house,  and  be  glad  to  draw  the  curtains 
and  bring  my  chair  close  to  a  great  roaring  fire.  Think  of 
that — to  be  glad  to  come  close  to  a  great  roaring  fire !" 

"  I  have  described  these  things  to  my  daughter,"  said 
Mrs.  Thome,  explaining  these  wintry  aspirations  to  their 
guest  in  her  careful  little  way.  "  My  home  before  my  mar 
riage  was  in  the  northern  part  of  New  England,  and  these 
pictures  from  my  youth  have  been  Garda' s  fairy  tales." 

"  Then  you  are  not  English  ?"  said  Winthrop.  He  knew 
perfectly  that  she  was  not,  but  he  wished  to  hear  the  defi 
nite  little  abstract  of  family  history  which,  in  answer  to  his 
question,  he  thought  she  would  feel  herself  called  upon  to 
bestow.  He  was  not  mistaken. 

"  My  husband  was  English — that  is,  of  English  descent," 
she  explained — "and  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  should  have 


6  EAST- ANGELS. 

thought  me  English  also,  for  I  have  imbibed  the  family  air 
so  long  that  I  have  ended  by  really  becoming  one  of  them. 
We  Thornes  are  very  English;  but  we  are  the  English  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  We  have  not  moved  on, 
as  no  doubt  the  English  of  to-day  have  been  obliged  to 
move ;  we  have  remained  stationary.  Even  in  dear  old  Eng 
land  itself,  we  should  to-day,  no  doubt,  Garda  and  I,  be 
called  old-fashioned." 

Winthrop  found  himself  so  highly  entertained  by  this 
speech,  by  her  "  We  Thornes,"  and  her  "  dear  old  England," 
that  he  looked  down  lest  she  should  see  the  change  of  ex 
pression  which  accompanies  a  smile,  even  though  the  smile 
be  hidden.  This  little  woman  had  never  been  in  England 
in  her  life ;  unmistakable  New  Hampshire  looked  from  her 
eyes,  sounded  in  every  tone  of  her  voice,  made  itself  visible 
in  all  her  movements  and  attitudes.  She  was  unceasingly 
anxious ;  she  had  never  indulged  herself  in  anything,  or 
taken  anything  lightly  since  she  was  born  ;  she  had  as  little 
body  as  was  possible,  and  in  that  body  she  had  to  the  full 
the  strict  American  conscience.  All  this  was  vividly  un- 
English. 

"  Yes,  I  always  regret  so  much  the  modern  ways  into 
which  dear  England  has  fallen,"  she  went  on.  "It  would 
have  been  beautiful  if  they  could  but  have  retained  the  old 
customs,  the  old  ideas,  as  we  have  retained  them  here.  But 
in  some  things  they  have  done  so,"  she  added,  with  the  air 
of  wishing  to  be  fully  just.  "In  the  late  unhappy  contest, 
you  know,  they  were  with  us — all  their  best  people — as  to 
our  patriarchal  system  for  our  servants.  They  understood 
us — us  of  the  South — completely." 

Winthrop's  amusement  had  now  reached  its  highest  point. 
"  Heroic,  converted  little  Yankee  school  -  marrn,"  was  his 
thought.  "What  a  colossal  effort  her  life  down  here  must 
have  been  for  her,  poor  thing  !" 

"  Your  husband  was  the  first  of  the  American  Thornes, 
then  ?"  he  said,  with  the  intention  of  drawing  out  more  nar 
rative. 

"  Oh  no.  The  first  Edgar  Thome  came  out  from  Eng 
land  with  Governor  Tonyn  (the  friend  of  Lord  Marchmont, 
you  know),  during  the  British  occupation  of  this  province 


EAST  ANGELS.  7 

in  the  last  century  ;  lie  remained  here  after  the  retrocession 
to  Spain,  because  he  had  married  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
old  Spanish  families  of  this  coast,  Beatriz  dc  Ducro.  As 
Beatriz  was  an  only  child,  they  lived  here  with  her  parents, 
and  the  second  Edgar  Thome,  their  son,  was  born  here. 
He  also  married  a  Duero,  a  cousin  named  Ines;  my  hus 
band,  the  third  Edgar,  was  their  child.  My  husband  came 
north  one  summer;  he  came  to  New  England.  There  he 
met  me.  We  were  married  not  long  afterwards,  and  I  re 
turned  with  him  to  his  southern  home.  Edgarda  was  but 
two  years  old  when  her  dear  father  was  taken  from  us." 

"  Miss  Thome  resembles  her  Spanish  more  than  her  Eng 
lish  ancestors,  I  fancy  ?"  said  Winthrop,  looking  at  the  handle 
of  his  riding-whip  for  a  moment,  perhaps  to  divest  the  ques 
tion  of  too  closely  personal  a  character,  the  young  lady  her 
self  being  beside  him.  But  this  little  by-play  was  not  need 
ed.  Mrs.  Thome  had  lived  a  solitary  life  so  long  that  her 
daughter,  her  daughter's  ancestors,  her  daughter's  resem 
blances  (the  last,  indeed,  might  be  called  historical),  seemed 
to  her  quite  natural  subjects  for  conversation ;  if  Winthrop 
had  gazed  at  Garda  herself,  instead  of  at  the  handle  of  his 
riding-whip,  that  would  have  seemed  to  her  quite  natural 
also. 

"  Edgarda  is  the  portrait  of  her  Spanish  grandmother 
painted  in  English  colors,"  she  answered,  in  one  of  her  neat 
ly  arranged  little  phrases. 

"An  anomaly,  therefore,"  commented  Garda,  who  seemed 
rather  tired  of  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken.  "But 
it  can  do  no  harm,  Medusa-fashion,  because  fastened  forever 
upon  a  Florida  wall." 

"A  Florida  wall  is  not  such  a  bad  thing,"  answered  Win 
throp.  "  I  am  thinking  a  little  of  buying  one  for  myself." 

"Ah,  a  residence  in  Gracias-a-Dios ?"  said  Mrs.  Thornc, 
her  small,  bright  blue  eyes  meeting  his  with  a  sort  of  screen 
suddenly  drawn  down  over  them — a  screen  which  he  inter 
preted  as  a  quick  endeavor  on  her  part  to  conceal  in  their 
depths  any  consciousness  that  a  certain  desirable  old  Spanish 
mansion  was  possibly  to  be  obtained,  and  for  a  price  which, 
to  a  well-filled  purse  of  the  north,  might  seem  almost  comi 
cally  small. 


8  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  No  ;  I  do  not  care  for  a  house  in  the  town,"  lie  an 
swered.  "I  should  prefer  something  outside — more  of  a 
place,  if  I  should  buy  at  all." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  why  any  one  should  wish  to  buy  a 
place  down  here  now,"  said  Garda.  "  A  house  in  Gracias-a- 
Dios,  with  a  rose  garden  and  a  few  orange-trees,  is  all  very 
well ;  you  could  stay  there  for  two  months  or  so  in  the 
winter,  and  then  close  it  and  go  north  again.  But  what 
could  you  do  with  a  large  place  ?  Cotton  and  sugar  are  no 
longer  worth  raising,  now  that  we  have  no  slaves.  And  as 
to  one  of  the  large  orange  groves  that  people  are  beginning 
to  talk  about,  there  is  no  one  here  who  could  manage  it  for 
you.  You  would  have  to  see  to  it  yourself,  and  that  you 
could  never  do.  To  begin  with,  the  climate  would  kill  you; 
and  then  there  are  the  snakes." 

"Being  already  dead,  the  snakes  would  hardly  trouble  me, 
I  suppose,  unless  you  refer  to  future  torments,"  said  Win- 
throp,  laughing.  **  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  upon  your 
picture  of  the  agricultural  resources  of  the  country.  They 
have  never  before  been  so  clearly  presented  to  me ;  it  is 
most  interesting." 

Garda  shook  her  head,  repressing  a  smile.  But  still  she 
did  not  look  at  him. 

"  In  purchasing  a  place  here  Mr.  Winthrop  may  not  be 
thinking  of  agriculture ;  he  may  be  thinking  only  of  cli 
mate,"  remarked  Mrs.  Thorne,  mildly,  to  her  daughter. 

"  Climate — that  is  blue  sky,  I  suppose,"  said  Garda  ;  "  I 
acknowledge  that  there  is  an  abundance  of  that  here.  But 
I  advise  Mr.  Winthrop  to  buy  but  a  small  piece  of  ground 
as  his  standing-point,  and  to  take  his  sky  out  perpendicular 
ly  ;  he  can  go  up  to  any  height,  you  know,  as  high  as  the 
moon,  if  he  likes.  That  would  be  ever  so  much  wiser  than 
to  have  the  same  amount  spread  out  horizontally  over  a 
quantity  of  swamp-land  which  no  person  in  his  senses  could 
wish  to  own." 

"But  the  land  about  here  strikes  me  as  remarkably  dry," 
observed  their  visitor,  amused  by  the  girl's  opposition  to  an 
idea  which  he  had  as  yet  so-faintly  outlined.  He  suspected, 
however,  that  she  was  not  combating  him  so  much  as.  she 
was  combating  the  possibility  of  a  hope  in  the  breast  of  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  9 

little  mother.  But  poor  Mrs.  Thome  had  been  very  dis 
creet;  she  had  not  allowed  herself  to  even  look  interested. 

"  It  is  as  dry  as  the  Desert  of  Sahara,"  Garda  answered, 
with  decision,  "  and  it  is  as  wet  as  a  wet  sponge.  There  is 
this  dry  white  sand  which  you  see  on  the  pine-barrens — 
miles  upon  miles  of  it.  Then,  stretching  across  it  here  and 
there  come  the  great  belts  of  bottomless  swamp.  That  is 
Florida." 

"  Your  description  is  a  striking  one,"  said  Winthrop,  grave 
ly.  "  You  make  me  feel  all  the  more  desirous  to  own  a  lit 
tle  of  such  a  remarkable  combination  of  wet  and  dry." 

Garda  glanced  at  him,  and  this  time  her  smile  conquered 
her.  Winthrop  was  conscious  of  a  pleasure  in  having  made 
her  look  at  him  and  smile.  For  it  was  riot  a  matter  of 
course  that  she  would  do  either.  His  feeling  about  her  had 
been  from  the  first  that  she  was  the  most  natural  young  girl 
he  had  ever  met  —  that  is,  in  the  ranks  of  the  educated. 
There  was  a  naturalness,  of  course,  in  the  Indian  girls,  whom 
he  had  seen  in  the  far  West,  which  probably  exceeded  Gar- 
da's;  but  that  sort  of  naturalness  he  did  not  care  for.  Gar- 
da  was  natural  in  her  own  graceful  way,  singularly  natural ; 
her  glance  and  her  smile,  while  not  so  ready,  nor  so  prompt 
ly  hospitable  as  those  of  most  girls  of  her  age,  seemed  to 
him  to  possess  a  quality  which  he  had  come  to  consider  al 
most  extinct — the  quality  of  frank,  undisturbed  sincerity. 

"  I  sometimes  regret  that  I  described  to  my  daughter  so 
often  the  aspects  of  my  northern  home,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne. 
"  It  was  a  pleasure  to  me  at  the  time  (it  had  been  a  great 
change  for  me,  you  know),  and  I  did  not  realize  that  they 
were  becoming  exaggerated  to  her,  these  descriptions — more 
beautiful  than  the  reality.  For  she  has  dwelt  too  much 
upon  them;  by  contrast  she  over-estimates  them.  The 
South,  too,  has  its  beautiful  aspects:  that  we  must  allow." 

Winthrop  fancied  that  he  detected  a  repressed  plaintive- 
ness  in  her  tone.  "  She  thinks  her  daughter  cruel  to  keep 
on  beating  down  so  ruthlessly  her  poor  little  hope,"  was  his 
thought.  Then  he  answered  the  spoken  sentence :  "  As  she 
has  never  seen  these  things  for  herself,  your  descriptions 
must  have  been  vivid." 

"No;  it  is  her  imagination  that  is  that." 


10  EAST  ANGELS. 

"True — I  have  myself  had  an  example  of  her  imagination 
in  her  remarks  upon  agriculture." 

Garda  laughed.  "  I  shall  say  no  more  about  agriculture, 
blue  sky,  or  anything  else,"  she  declared. 

"You  leave  me,  then,  to  take  care  of  myself?" 

"  You  do  not  need  my  assistance,  I  never  waste  it." 

"  I  should  have  pretended  to  be  quite  helpless !  That's 
the  second  mistake  I  have  made  this  afternoon.  If  I  had 
only  let  it  be  supposed  that  my  health  was  delicate,  Mrs. 
Thornc  would  have  been  much  more  interested  in  me." 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Winthrop,"  said  his  hostess,  earnestly;  "you 
are  quite  mistaken.  Good  health  is  in  itself  full  of  the 
deepest  interest,  I  am  sure,  and  especially  at  the  present  day, 
when  it  is  so  singularly  rare.  I  am  most  glad  you  possess 
it — most  glad  indeed." 

"  I  possess  enough  of  it,  at  any  rate,  to  go  over  the  place, 
if  yon  will  be  so  kind," said  Winthrop.  "You  know  you 
promised  me  that  pleasure  some  day,  and  why  not  this  af 
ternoon  ?  There  is  a  delightful  breeze." 

Mrs.  Thome  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  tips  of  her  black 
cloth  slippers,  visible  beneath  the  skirt  of  her  gown.  These 
little  shoes  one  could  scarcely  fail  to  see,  since  the  skirt, 
which  was  neatness  itself  in  its  decent  black  folds,  was  rath 
er  scanty  and  short.  Their  age  and  well-worn  thinness,  the 
skilful  mending  of  their  worst  places,  the  new  home-made 
bindings,  the  fresh  ribbon  bows  bravely  tied,  told  a  story  to 
the  observers  of  delicate  things. 

But  while  Mrs.  Thorne  surveyed  her  slippers,  her  daughter 
was  replying :  "  It  would  hardly  amuse  you  to  go  over  the 
place,  Mr.  Winthrop ;  there  is  really  nothing  to  see  but  the 
crane." 

"Let  us  go,  then,  and  see  the  crane." 

"  Mamma  would  be  so  delighted,  you  know.  But  she  never 
walks." 

"  Not  far,"  corrected  Mrs.  Thorne.  "  I.  am  not  strong, 
not  able  to  walk  far." 

"And  I  should  be  delighted,  too,"  continued  Garda,  "only 
I  am  so  sleepy.  I  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  spending 
my  afternoons  in  the  hammock;  that  makes  me  immensely 
drowsy  just  at  this  hour.  " 


EAST  ANGELS.  11 

"  I  feel  like  an  interloper,"  said  Winthrop ;  "  say  a  large 
mosquito." 

"You  needn't.  It's  not  well  to  sleep  so  much,"  replied 
Miss  Thome,  calmly. 

"Certainly  you  know  how  to  console.  Is  that  the  ham 
mock  in  which  you  pass  your  happy  existence?" 

"  Not  existence ;  only  afternoons.  You  really  -wish  to 
go?"  she  added,  seeing  that  he  had  taken  his  hat  from  the 
chair  beside  him.  "We  will  send  Raquel  with  you,  then, 
as  guide." 

"  Raquel  ?" 

"Haven't  you  noticed  her?  She  lets  you  in  when  you 
come.  She  is  an  important  personage  with  us,  I  assure  you ; 
her  mother,  grandmother,  and  great -grandmother  lived  on 
the  place  here  before  her." 

Winthrop  recalled  the  portly  jet-black  negress  who,  in  an 
swer  to  his  knock,  had  opened  the  lower  door. 

"Three  generations  make  aristocracy  in  America,"  he  re 
plied  ;  "  I  am  afraid  of  so  distinguished  a  guide.  If  doom 
ed  to  go  without  Mrs.  Thome  or  yourself,  why  may  I  not  go 
alone?" 

"  You  would  never  find  the  magnolias,  you  would  come 
into  the  live-oak  avenue  at  the  wrong  end,  you  would  look 
at  the  ruin  from  its  commonplace  side,  you  would  see  only 
the  back  of  the  Cherokee  roses,  the  crane  would  not  dance 
for  you,  the  wild  cattle  would  run  at  you,  and  you  would  in 
evitably  get  into  the  swamp,"  answered  the  girl,  checking 
off  the  items  one  by  one  on  her  pretty  fingers. 

"  I  have  confessed  my  fear  of  Raquel,  and  now  you  dis 
play  before  me  this  terrible  list  of  dangers.  Don't  you 
think  it  would  be  but  common  charity  to  come  with  me 
yourself?  My  conversation  is  not  exciting;  you  could  eas 
ily  sleep  a  little,  between-times,  as  we  walk." 

"  I  believe  you  have  had  your  own  way  all  your  life,"  re 
marked  Garda,  "  or  you  would  never  persist  as  you  do. 
Your  humility  is  nothing  but  a  manner;  in  reality  you  ex 
pect  everything  to  be  done  for  you  by  everybody." 

"  Not  by  everybody,"  Winthrop  responded. 

Mrs.  Thorne  had  coughed  as  Garda  ended  her  speech. 
Mrs.  Thorne  often  couched,  and  her  coughs  had  a  character 


12  EAST  ANGELS. 

of  their  own ;  they  did  not  appear  to  be  pulmonary.  They 
were  delicate  little  sounds  which  came  forth  apologetically, 
shielded  by  her  hand,  never  quite  completed  ;  they  were  not 
coughs  so  much  as  suggestions  of  coughs,  and  with  these 
suggestions  she  was  in  the  habit  of  filling  little  pauses  in  the 
conversation,  covering  up  the  awkwardnesses  or  mistakes  of 
others  (there  were  never  any  of  her  own  to  cover),  or  acting 
as  hyphen  for  disjointed  remarks  when  people  had  forgot 
ten  what  they  were  going  to  say.  It  was,  indeed,  a  most 
accomplished  cough,  all  Gracias  had  been  indebted  to  it. 
Lately,  too,  she  had  begun  to  use  it  to  veil  her  own  little 
periods  of  consultation  with  herself  regarding  her  daughter; 
for  she  seemed  by  no  means  certain  of  the  direction  which 
this  daughter's  thoughts  or  words  might  take,  and  the  un 
certainty  troubled  her  careful  maternal  mind.  Garda,  how 
ever,  though  often  out  of  sight  round  some  unexpected 
corner,  was  never  far  distant;  the  hurrying  elderly  compre 
hension  always  caught  up  with  her  before  long;  but  these 
periods  of  uncertainty,  combined  with  cares  more  material, 
had  ended  by  impressing  upon  Mrs.  Thome's  face  the  look 
of  anxiety  which  was  now  its  most  constant  expression — an 
anxiety  covered,  however,  as  much  as  possible,  by  the  mask 
of  minutely  careful  politeness  which  fitted  closely  over  it, 
doing  its  best  to  conceal,  or,  failing  in  that,  to  at  least  mark 
as  private,  the  personal  troubles  which  lay  underneath, 

"  Mamma's  cough  means  that  I  am  not  sufficiently  polite," 
said  Garda;  "I  always  know  what  mamma's  cough  means." 
She  rose,  passed  behind  her  mother's  chair,  and  bending  for 
ward  over  her  small  head,  lightly  kissed  her  forehead.  "  I 
will  go,  mamma,"  she  said,  caressingly.  "  I  will  be  beautiful 
ly  good,  because  to-morrow  is  your  birthday ;  it  ought  to  be 
a  dear  little  day,  about  six  hours  long,  to  fit  you." 

"I  am  fortunate  to  have  asked  my  favor  upon  the  eve  of 
an  anniversary,"  said  Winthrop. 

"You  are,"  answered  Garda,  taking  her  broad -brimmed 
h.it  from  the  nail  behind  her.  "  It's  only  upon  such  great 
occasions  that  I  am  really  and  angelically  good — as  mamma 
would  like  me  to  be  all  the  time." 

"I  will  send  Raquel  after  yon,  my  daughter,  with  the  um- 
brjllas,"  said  Mrs.  Thome,  with  a  little  movement  of  her  lips 


EAST  ANGELS.  13 

and  throat,  as  though  she  had  just  swallowed  something  of 
a  pleasant  taste,  which  was,  with  her,  the  expression  of  con 
tent. 

"  Surely  it  is  not  going  to  rain  ?"  said  Winthrop,  examin 
ing  the  sky. 

"  They  are  sun-umbrellas  ;  you  may  need  them,"  answered 
his  hostess,  with  a  certain  increased  primness  of  accentuation, 
which  immediately  brought  to  his  mind  the  idea  that  the 
carrier  of  these  articles  would  represent  the  duenna  whom  she 
considered  necessary. 

"A  Spanish  graft,  that,  on  the  original  New  England  tree," 
was  his  mental  comment.  "  I  wonder  how  many  more  there 
are?" 

But  the  descendant  of  the  Spaniards  was  speaking  for 
herself.  "  We  do  not  want  Kaqnel,  mamma;  we  can  carry 
the  umbrellas  ourselves."  And  she  passed  into  the  darkened 
drawing-room,  from  which  opened  the  little  balcony  where 
they  had  been  sitting. 

Winthrop,  after  taking  leave  of  Mrs.  Thorne,  followed  Gar- 
da.  But  he  had  the  conviction  that  a  duenna  of  some  sort, 
though  it  might  not  be  Raquel,  would  be  improvised  from 
that  balcony  before  long,  and  sent  after  them. 

He  had  already  paid  several  visits  to  these  ladies,  and  knew 
his  way  through  the  interior  dimness,  but  the  old  house  still 
attracted  him,  and  he  did  not  hurry  his  steps;  he  looked 
again  at  the  rooms,  which,  with  their  few  articles  of  furniture, 
had  to  northern  eyes  an  appearance  of  cool  shaded  empti 
ness,  the  broad  open  spaces  having  been  purposely  left  to 
give  place  for  the  free  passage  of  air.  The  vaulted  ceilings 
deep  in  shadow,  the  archways  in  place  of  the  northern  doors, 
one  room  panelled  to  the  top  in  dark  polished  wood  which 
glimmered  dimly  as  he  passed  through — all  these  he  liked  to 
note.  Beyond,  the  stone  stairway  made  a  leisurely,  broad- 
stepped  descent.  The  high  wainscot  on  the  wall  at  its  side 
showed  pomegranates  stiffly  carved  in  low  relief,  and  the  bal 
ustrade  of  the  same  dark  wood  ended  in  a  clumsy  column, 
with  a  heavy  wreath  of  the  fruit  wound  round  it,  the  conven 
tional  outlines  worn  into  vagueness  by  the  touch  of  time. 

The  old  house  was  built  of  stone,  the  porous  shell-conglom 
erate  of  that  coast.  The  thick  blocks  had  been  covered  with 


14  EAST  ANGELS. 

«in  outer  coat  of  plaster,  and  painted  a  shadeless  gray-white. 
The  structure  extended  itself  over  a  large  space  of  ground. 
Blank,  unadorned,  covered  by  a  flat  roof,  without  so  much  as 
the  projection  of  a  cornice  to  break  their  monotony,  the  walls 
stretched  evenly  round  a  parallelogram,  and  having  but  two 
stories  of  height,  looked  low  in  comparison  with  their  length. 
But  the  old  house  in  reality  was  not  so  large  as  it  appeared 
to  be,  these  same  walls  with  their  lining  of  rooms  enclosing 
an  interior  court  which  was  open  to  the  sky  ;  the  windows 
of  the  inner  sides  looked  down  upon  a  low-curbed  well,  a 
clump  of  bananas,  a  rose-bush,  and  an  ancient  stone  seat  with 
a  hook  above  it,  where  had  hung  in  his  cage,  until  he  died  of 
old  age,  Mrs.  Thome's  northern  canary,  who  had  accompanied 
his  mistress  southward  on  her  wedding  journey  to  Florida. 

Viewed  from  without,  the  gray-white  abode  had  a  peculiar 
ly  dumb  aspect.  On  the  north  side  there  were  no  windows ; 
on  the  south,  east,  and  west  the  windows  of  the  lower  story, 
few  at  best,  were  covered  by  solid  wooden  shutters,  which, 
being  all  kept  closed,  and  having  the  same  hue  as  the  walls, 
could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  them.  The  windows 
of  the  upper  story  were  more  numerous,  but  almost  as  jealous 
ly  guarded;  for  though  their  shutters  were  here  and  there 
partially  open,  one  could  see  that  in  a  trice  they  could  all  be 
drawn  to  and  barred  within,  and  that  then  the  old  mansion 
would  present  an  unbroken  white  wall  to  all  points  of  the 
compass.  But  once  allowed  to  pass  the  door,  solidly  set  in 
the  stone,  without  top  or  side  lights,  the  visitor  perceived  that 
these  rooms  with  exterior  windows  darkened,  opened  wide 
ly  upon  the  sunny  court  within.  Some  of  them,  indeed, 
did  more.  The  inner  walls  of  the  ground-floor  had  been  cut 
away  in  four  places,  leaving  rounded  open  arches  with  pillars 
supporting  the  second  story,  and,  under  these  arcades,  there 
were  chairs  and  tables  and  even  a  sofa  visible,  articles  which 
presented  to  Evert  Winthrop's  eyes,  each  time  he  came,  a 
picture  of  tropical  and  doorless  confidence  in  the  tempera 
ture  which  struck  him  as  delightful.  These  arcades  were  not 
so  unprotected  as  they  appeared  to  be.  Still,  as  the  months 
went  by,  it  could  be  said  with  truth  that  they  remained,  for 
five-sixths  of  the  year,  thus  widely  open.  Evert  Winthrop 
had  spent  his  childhood  and  youth  in  New  England,  he  had 


EAST  ANGELS.  15 

visited  all  parts  of  the  great  West,  in  later  years  he  had  trav 
elled  extensively  in  the  Old  World ;  but  this  was  his  first 
visit  to  that  lovely  southern  shore  of  his  own  country  which 
has  a  winter  climate  more  enchanting  than  any  that  Europe 
can  offer ;  to  match  it,  one  must  seek  the  Madeira  Islands  or 
Algiers.  In  addition  to  this  climate,  Winthrop  was  begin 
ning  to  discover  that  there  were  other  things  as  well — old 
Spanish  houses  like  the  one  through  which  he  was  now  pass 
ing,  a  flavor  of  tradition  and  legend,  tradition  and  legend,  too, 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  Miles  Standish  and  his  com 
panions,  or  even  with  that  less  important  personage,  Hendrik 
Hudson.  There  was — he  could  not  deny  it — a  certain  com 
parative  antiquity  about  this  southern  peninsula  which  had 
in  it  more  richness  of  color  and  a  deeper  perspective  than  that 
possessed  by  any  of  the  rather  blank,  near,  little  backgrounds 
of  American  history  farther  north.  This  was  a  surprise  to 
him.  Like  most  New-Englanders,  he  had  unconsciously  cher 
ished  the  belief  that  all  there  was  of  historical  importance,  of 
historical  picturesqueness  even,  in  the  beginnings  of  the  re 
public,  was  associated  with  the  Puritans  from  whom  he  was 
on  his  father's  side  descended,  was  appended  to  their  state 
ly  hats  and  ruffs,  their  wonderful  perseverance,  their  dignified 
orthography,  the  solemnities  of  their  speech  and  demeanor. 
And  if,  with  liberality,  he  should  stretch  the  lines  a  little  to 
include  the  old  Dutch  land-holders  of  Manhattan  Island,  and 
the  river  up  which  the  Half-moon  had  sailed,  that  had  seem 
ed  to  him  all  that  could  possibly  be  necessary ;  there  was,  in 
deed,  nothing  else  to  include.  But  here  was  a  life,  an  atmos 
phere,  to  whose  contemporary  and  even  preceding  existence 
on  their  own  continent  neither  Puritan  nor  Patroon  had  paid 
heed ;  and  it  was  becoming  evident  that  he,  their  descendant, 
with  all  the  aids  of  easy  communication,  and  that  modern 
way  of  looking  at  the  globe  which  has  annihilated  distance 
and  made  a  voyage  round  it  but  a  small  matter — even  he, 
with  all  this  help,  had  not,  respecting  this  beautiful  peninsu 
la  of  his  own  country,  developed  perceptions  more  keen  than 
those  of  these  self-absorbed  ancestors — an  appreciation  more 
delicate  than  their  obtuse  one.  Winthrop's  appreciation  was 
good.  But  it  had  been  turned,  as  regarded  historical  and 
picturesque  associations,  principally  towards  the  Old  World. 


16  EAST  ANGELS. 

lie  now  went  through  a  good  deal  of  meditation  upon  this 
subject;  he  was  pleased,  yet,  on  the  whole,  rather  ashamed 
of  himself.  When  Raphael  was  putting  into  the  back 
grounds  of  his  pictures  those  prim,  slenderly  foliaged  trees 
which  he  had  seen  from  Perugino's  windows  in  his  youth, 
the  Spaniards  were  exploring  this  very  Florida  shore ;  yet 
when  he,  Evert  Winthrop,  had  discovered  the  same  tall,  thin 
trees  (which  up  to  that  time  he  had  thought  rather  an  affec 
tation)  from  the  overhanging  balcony  of  the  little  inn  at  As- 
sisi — it  had  seemed  to  overhang  all  Umbria — did  he  not 
think  of  Raphael's  day  as  far  back  in  the  past,  and  as  com 
pletely  remote  from  the  possibility  of  any  contemporary  his 
tory  in  America  as  America  is  remote  from  the  future  great 
cities  of  the  Sahara  plains  ?  And  when,  in  Venice,  he  dwelt 
with  delight  upon  the  hues  of  Titian  and  Veronese,  was  he 
not  sure  (though  without  thinking  of  it)  that  in  their  day 
the  great  forests  of  his  own  New  World  untrodden  by  the 
white  man's  foot,  had  stretched  unbroken  to  the  sea  ?  Be 
cause  no  Puritan  with  grave  visage  had  as  yet  set  sail  for 
Massachusetts  Bay,  he  had  not  realized  that  here  on  this 
southern  shore  had  been  towns  and  people,  governors,  sol 
diers,  persecutions,  and  priests. 

"I  presume  you  intend  to  show  me  everything  in  its 
worst  possible  aspect,"  he  said,  as  he  joined  Garda  in  the 
sunny  court  below.  She  was  waiting  for  him  beside  the 
bananas,  which  were  here  not  full  grown — tall  shrubs  that 
looked,  with  their  long- winged  leaves  standing  out  stiffly 
from  their  stalks,  like  green  quill-pens  that  a  giant  might 
use  for  his  sonnet-writing.  I 

"No;  I  have  withdrawn  my  guardianship — don't  you  re 
member?  You  must  now  guard  yourself." 

"  From  the  great  temptations  opening  before  me." 

"  They  may  be  such  to  you  ;  they  are  not  to  me.  I  think 
I  have  never  met  any  great  temptations;  I  wonder  when 
they  will  begin  ?" 

They  had  crossed  the  court,  and  passed  through  a  cool, 
dark,  stone-floored  hall  on  the  other  side ;  here  they  went 
out  through  a  low  door,  which  Raquel  opened  for  them. 
Winthrop  declined  the  white  umbrella  which  this  stately 
handmaid  offered  him,  and  as  Garda  would  not  let  him 


EAST  ANGELS.  17 

carry  the  one  she  had  taken,  he  walked  on  beside  her  with 
his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  short  morning-coat,  looking 
about  him  with  enjoyment,  as  he  usually  did  at  East  Angels. 
The  fagade  of  the  house  which  looked  towards  the  lagoon 
was  broken  by  the  small  balcony,  roofed  and  closely  shaded 
by  green  blinds,  where  they  had  been  sitting,  and  where  the 
hammock  was  swung.  This  little  green  cage,  hung  up  on 
the  side  of  the  house,  had  no  support  from  below ;  there 
was  neither  pillar  nor  trellis;  not  even  a  vine  wandered  up 
to  its  high  balustrade.  The  most  agile  Romeo  could  not 
have  climbed  to  it.  But  a  Romeo,  in  any  case,  could  not 
have  approached  near  enough  to  attempt  such  a  feat,  since 
a  wide  space  of  open  ground,  without  tree  or  shrub  upon  it, 
extended  from  the  house-walls  outward  to  a  certain  distance 
on  all  sides.  Winthrop  had  already  noticed  these  features 
— the  heavy  barred  shutters  of  the  lower  floor,  the  high-hung 
little  balcony,  the  jealous  open  space — he  had  pronounced 
them  all  very  Spanish.  He  now  looked  about  him  again — 
at  the  dumb  old  house,  the  silvery  sheen  of  the  lagoon,  the 
feathery  tops  of  the  palmettoes  on  Patricio  opposite,  the 
blue  sky,  and  the  sunny  sea  stretching  eastward  to  Africa. 
"I  ask  nothing  more,"  he  said  at  last.  "  This  is  content." 

His  companion  glanced  at  him.  "You  do  look  wonder 
fully  contented,"  she  commented. 

"  It  amuses  you  ?     Perhaps  it  vexes  you  ?" 

"Neither.  I  was  only  wondering  what  there  could  be 
here  to  make  you  so  contented." 

This  little  speech  pleased  the  man  beside  her  highly.  He 
said  to  himself  that  in  the  mind  of  a  girl  accustomed  to  the 
ways  of  the  world,  it  would  have  belonged  to  the  list  of 
speeches  too  obvious  in  application  to  be  made ;  while  a 
little  country  coquette  would  have  said  it  purposely.  But 
Garda  Thorne  had  spoken  both  naturally  and  indifferently, 
without  thinking  or  caring  as  to  what  he  might  say  in  reply. 

"I  was  remembering,"  he  answered,  "that  at  home  all  the 
rivers  are  frozen  over,  not  to  speak  of  the  water-pipes,  and 
that  ice-blocks  are  grinding  against  each  other  in  the  harbor; 
is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  in  this  charming  air  I  should  be 
content?  But  there  are  various  degrees  even  in  content 
ment,  and  I  should  reach  a  higher  one  still  if  you  would 

2  ' 


18  EAST  ANGELS. 

only  let  me  carry  that  umbrella."  For  she  had  opened  it, 
and  was  holding  it  as  women  will,  not  high  enough  to  admit 
him  under  its  shade,  but  at  just  the  angle  that  kept  him 
effectually  at  a  distance  on  account  of  the  points  which  were 
dangerously  on  a  level,  now  with  his  hat,  now  with  his  collar, 
now3  with  some  undefended  portion  of  his  face.  He  had 
always  admired  the  serenity  with  which  women  will  pass 
through  a  crowded  street,  raking  all  the  passers-by  as  they 
go  with  an  umbrella  held  at  just  that  height,  the  height  that 
suits  themselves;  smilingly  and  with  agreeable  countenances 
they  advance,  without  the  least  conception,  apparently,  of 
the  wild  dodging  they  force  upon  all  persons  taller  than 
themselves,  of  the  wrath  and  havoc  they  are  leaving  behind 
them. 

"No  man  knows  how  to  hold  a  sun-umbrella,"  answered 
Garda.  "To  begin  with,  he  never  has  the  least  idea  where 
the  sun  is." 

"  I  have  learned  that  when  you  say  *  To  begin  with,'  there 
is  small  hope  for  us.  Might  I  offer  the  suggestion,  humbly, 
that  there  may  be  other  methods  of  holding  umbrellas  in 
existence,  besides  those  prevalent  in  Gracias." 

Garda  laughed.  Her  laugh  was  charming,  Winthrop  had 
already  noticed  that;  it  was  not  a  laugh  that  could  be  count 
ed  upon,  it  did  not  come  often,  or  upon  call.  But  when  it 
did  ripple  forth  it  was  a  distinct  laugh,  merry  and  sweet, 
and  not  the  mere  magnified  smile,  or  the  two  or  three  shrill 
little  shouts  in  a  descending  scale,  which  do  duty  as  laughs 
from  the  majority  of  feminine  lips.  Its  influence  extended 
also  to  her  eyes,  which  then  shot  forth  two  bright  beams  to  . 
accompany  it.  "  I  see  that  it  will  not  do  to  talk  to  you  as 
I  talk  to — to  the  persons  about  here,"  she  said. 

"Are  there  many  of  them — these  persons  about  here?" 
"  Four,"  replied  Garda,  promptly.  "There  is  Reginald 
Kirby,  surgeon.  Then  there  is  the  Reverend  Mr.  Moore, 
rector  of  St.  Philip  and  St.  James.  Then  we  have  Adolfo 
Torres,  from  the  Giron  plantation,  south  of  here,  and  Manuel 
Ruiz,  from  Patricio,  opposite." 

"  A  tropical  list,"  said  Winthrop ;  "  discouragingly  tropi 
cal." 

"  But  I'm  tropical  myself,"  Garda  responded. 


EAST  ANGELS.  19 

She  was  taking  him  through  a  narrow  path,  between  what 
had  once  been  hedges,  but  were  now  high  tangled  walls, 
overrun  with  the  pointed  leaves  of  the  wild  smilax.  The 
girl  had  a  light  step,  but  if  light,  it  was  not  quick ;  it  could 
have  been  best  described,  perhaps,  by  the  term  unhurrying,  a 
suggestion  of  leisure  lay  in  each  motion,  from  the  poise  of 
the  small  head  to  the  way  the  pretty  feet  moved  over  the 
path  or  floor.  Winthrop  disliked  a  hurried  step,  he  dis 
liked  also  a  tardy  one ;  the  step  that  is  light  but  at  the  same 
time  leisurely — this  seemed  to  him  to  mark  the  temperament 
that  gets  the  most  out  of  life  as  a  whole,  certainly  the  most 
of  pleasure,  often  too  the  most  of  attainment.  Garda  Thorne 
had  this  step.  In  her  case,  probably,  there  had  been  more 
of  pleasure  than  of  attainment.  She  did  not  indeed  strike 
one  as  a  person  who  had  given  much  thought  to  attainment, 
whether  of  scholarship  or  housewifely  skill,  of  needle-work 
or  graceful  accomplishments,  or  even  of  that  balance  of  con 
science,  that  trained  obedience  of  the  mind,  which  are  so 
much  to  many  of  her  sisters  farther  north.  But  these  same 
sisters  farther  north  would  have  commented,  probably,  com 
mented  from  the  long,  rocky  coast  of  New  England,  and 
from  the  many  intelligent  communities  of  the  Middle  States, 
that  no  woman  need  trouble  herself  about  attainment,  or 
anything  else,  if  she  were  as  beautiful  as  Edgarda  Thorne. 

For  fn  their  hearts  women  always  know  that  of  all  the 
gifts  bestowed  upon  their  sex  that  of  beauty  has  so  immeas 
urably  the  greatest  power  that  nothing  else  can  for  one 
moment  be  compared  with  it,  that  all  other  gifts,  of  whatso 
ever  nature  and  extent,  sink  into  insignificance  and  power- 
lessness  beside  it.  It  is,  of  course,  to  the  interest  of  domes 
tic  men,  the  good  husbands  and  fathers  who  are  satisfied 
with  home  comforts  and  home  productions,  and  desire  noth 
ing  so  much  as  peace  at  the  hearth-stone,  to  deny  this  fact, 
to  qualify  it  as  much  as  possible,  and  reduce  its  universality. 
But  the  denials  of  these  few,  contented,  low-flying  gentle 
men  are  lost  in  the  great  tide  of  world-wide  agreement,  and 
no  one  is  dcceived'by  them,  save,  in  occasional  instances, 
their  own  wives,  who  in  that  case  have  been  endowed  by 
nature  with  much  faith  (or  is  it  self-complacence?),  and  pow 
ers  of  observation  not  much  beyond  those  of  the  oyster. 


20  EAST  ANGELS. 

But  on  that  long  New  England  coast  already  spoken  of, 
and  in  those  pleasant,  pretty  towns  of  the  Middle  States, 
observation  has  been  keenly  cultivated,  and  self-complacence 
held  in  abeyance  by  much  analysis.  All  the  northern  sisters 
who  lived  there  would  probably  have  answered  again,  and 
with  one  voice,  that  with  simply  the  most  ordinary  good 
qualities  in  addition,  a  girl  as  beautiful  as  Edgarda  Thome 
would  carry  all  before  her  in  any  case. 

Garda  was  of  medium  height,  but  her  litheness  made  her 
seem  tall.  This  litheness  had  in  it  none  of  the  meagre  out 
lines  of  the  little  mother,  its  curves  were  all  moulded  with 
that  soft  roundness  which  betrays  a  southern  origin.  But 
the  observer  was  not  left  to  this  evidence  alone,  there  was 
further  and  indisputable  proof  in  her  large,  dark,  beautiful, 
wholly  Spanish  eyes.  She  had,  in  truth,  been  well  described 
by  Mrs.  Thome's  phrase — "  the  portrait  of  her  Spanish  grand 
mother,  painted  in  English  colors."  The  tints  of  her  com 
plexion  were  very  different  from  the  soft,  unchanging,  creamy 
hue  which  had  been  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  beautiful  Ines 
de  Dnero  ;  Garda' s  complexion  had  the  English  lightness  and 
brightness.  But  it  was  not  merely  pink  and  white;  there 
were  browns  under  its  warm  fairness — browns  which  gave 
the  idea  that  it  was  acquainted  with  the  open  air,  the  sun, 
the  sea,  and  enjoyed  them  all.  It  never  had  that  blue  look 
of  cold  which  mars  at  times  the  beauty  of  all  women  who 
are  delicately  fair;  it  never  had  the  fatal  shade  of  yellow 
that  menaces  the  brunette.  It  was  a  complexion  made  for 
all  times  and  all  lights;  pure  and  clear,  it  had  also  a  soft 
warmth  of  color  which  was  indescribably  rich.  The  lustrous 
black  braids  of  Ines  de  Duero  had  been  changed  in  her  grand 
daughter  to  braids  equally  thick,  but  in  color  a  bright  brown  ; 
not  the  brown  that  is  but  golden  hair  grown  darker,  nor  that 
other  well-known  shade,  neither  light  nor  dark,  which  covers 
the  heads  of  so  many  Americans  that  it  might  almost  be 
called  the  national  color ;  this  brown  had  always  been  bright, 
had  never  changed  ;  the  head  of  the  little  Garda  of  two  years 
old  had  showed  a  flossy  mass  of  the  same  hue.  This  hair 
curled  slightly  through  all  its  length,  which  gave  the  braids 
a  rippled  appearance.  It  had,  besides,  the  beauty  of  growing- 
low  and  thickly  at  the  temples  and  over  the  forehead.  The 


EAST  AXGELS.  21 

small  head  it  covered  was  poised  upon  a  throat  which  was 
not  a  mere  point  of  union,  an  unimportant  or  lean  angle  to 
be  covered  by  a  necklace  or  collar;  this  throat  was  round, 
distinct  in  outline,  its  fairness  beautiful  not  only  in  front,  but 
also  behind,  under  and  at  the  edges  of  the  hair  where  the 
comb  had  lifted  the  thick,  soft  mass  and  swept  it  up  to  take 
its  place  in  the  braids  above.  Garda's  features  were  fine,  but 
they  were  not  of  the  Greek  type,  save  that  the  beautiful  fore 
head  was  low ;  the  mouth  was  not  small,  the  lips  full,  deli 
cately  curved.  When  she  smiled,  these  lips  had  a  marked 
sweetness  of -expression.  They  parted  over  brilliantly  white 
teeth,  which,  with  the  colors  in  her  hair  and  complexion,  were 
the  direct  gifts  of  English  ancestors,  as  her  dark  eyes  with 
their  long,  curling,  dark  lashes,  the  thickness  of  her  brown 
braids,  her  rounded  figure  with  its  graceful  unhurrying  gait 
and  high-arched  little  feet,  were  inheritances  from  the  Dueros. 

But  written  words  are  not  the  artist's  colors;  they  can 
never  paint  the  portrait  which  all  the  world  can  see.  A 
woman  may  be  described,  and  by  a  truthful  pen,  as  possess 
ing  large  eyes,  regular  features,  and  so  on  through  the  list, 
and  yet  that  woman  may  move  through  life  quite  without 
charm,  while  another  who  is  chronicled,  and  with  equal  truth 
fulness,  as  having  a  profile  which  is  far  from  showing  accord 
ance  with  artists'  rules,  may  receive  through  all  her  days  the 
homage  paid  to  loveliness  alone.  The  bare  catalogue  of  feat 
ures,  tints,  and  height  does  not  include  the  subtle  spell  whose 
fulness  crowns  the  one,  while  its  lack  mars  the  other,  and  a 
narrator,  therefore,  while  allowing  himself  as  detailed  a  de 
lineation  as  it  pleases  him  to  give,  should  set  down  plainly  at 
the  en  1  the  result,  the  often  mysterious  and  unexpected  whole, 
which  the  elements  he  has  described  have,  in  some  occult  man 
ner,  combined  to  produce.  "There  was  an  enchantment  in 
her  expression,"  "  There  was  an  irresistible  sweetness  about 
her;"  these  phrases  tell  more  than  the  most  minute  record 
of  hue  and  outline ;  they  place  the  reader  where  he  would  be 
were  the  living,  breathing  presence  before  him,  instead  of  the 
mere  printed  page. 

But  in  the  case  of  Garda  Thorne  it  could  have  been  said 
that  she  had  not  only  brilliant  beauty,  but  the  loveliness  which 
does  not  always  accompany  it.  There  was  sufficient  rcgu- 


22  EAST  AXGELS. 

larity  in  her  face  to  keep  from  it  the  term  irregular ;  but  it 
had  'also  all  the  changing  expressions,  all  the  spirit,  all  the 
sweetness,  which  faces  whose  features  are  not  by  rule  often 
possess.  She  had  undoubtedly  a  great  charm,  a  charm  which 
no  one  had  as  yet  analyzed ;  she  was  not  a  girl  who  turned 
one's  thoughts  towards  analysis,  one  was  too  much  occupied 
in  simply  admiring  her.  She  was  as  open  as  the  day,  her 
frankness  was  wonderful ;  it  would  have  been  said  of  her  by 
every  one  that  she  had  an  extraordinary  simplicity,  were  it 
not  that  the  richness  of  her  beauty  threw  over  her  a  sort  of 
sumptuousness  which  did  not  accord  with  the  usual  image  of 
pure,  rather  meagre  limpidity  called  up  by  the  use  of  that  word. 
Evert  Winthrop,  beholding  her  for  the  first  time  in  the 
little  Episcopal  church  of  Gracias,  had  said  to  himself  that 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  girl  (viewing  the  matter  imper 
sonally)  whom  he  had  ever  seen.  Impersonally,  because  he 
would*  have  set  down  his  personal  preference  as  decidedly  for 
something  less  striking,  for  eyes  of  blue  rather  than  black, 
eyes  which  should  be  not  so  much  lustrous  as  gentle,  for 
smooth  hair  of  pale  gold,  a  forehead  and  eyebrows  like  those 
of  a  Raphael  Madonna.  He  was  sure,  also,  that  he  much 
preferred  slenderncss;  even  a  certain  virginal  thinness  and 
awkwardness  he  could  accept,  it  might  be  part  of  the  charm. 
A  friend  of  his,  a  lady  older  than  himself,  upon  hearing  him 
express  these  sentiments  not  long  before,  had  remarked  that 
they  shed  a  good  deal  of  light  backward  over  his  past.  When 
he  asked  her  what  she  meant,  she  added  that  a  liking  for  lit 
tle  wild  flowers  in  a  man  of  the  world  of  his  age,  and  an  in 
difference  to  tea-roses,  did  not  so  much  indicate  a  natural  sim 
plicity  of  taste  as  something  quite  apart  from  that — too  long 
an  acquaintance,  perhaps,  with  the  heavily  perfumed  atmos 
phere  of  conservatories. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  trying  to  make  me  out," 
Winthrop  had  answered,  laughing. 

"  I  make  you  out  a  very  good  fellow,"  replied  the  lady. 
"  But  you  are  like  my  husband  (who  is  also  a  very  good  fel 
low)  ;  he  wonders  how  I  can  go  to  the  theatre,  plays  are  so 
artificial.  I  suppose  they  are  artificial ;  but  I  notice  that  it 
required  his  closest — I  may  almost  say  his  nightly — attention 
for  something  like  fifteen  years  to  find  it  out." 


EAST  ANGELS.  23 

Wintlirop  happened  to  think  of  this  little  conversation — 
he  knew  not  why — as  he  followed  his  guide  through  her 
green-walled  path,  which  had  now  become  so  narrow  that  he 
could  no  longer  walk  by  her  side.  As  it  came  up  in  his  mind 
he  said  to  himself  that  here  was  a  tea-rose,  growing  if  not 
quite  in  the  seclusion  of  untrodden  forests  where  the  wild 
flowers  have  their  home,  then  at  least  in  natural  freedom,  in 
the  pure  air  and  sunshine,  under  the  open  sky.  There  was 
— there  could  be — nothing  of  the  conservatory,  nothing  ar 
tificial,  in  the  only  life  Edgarda  Thome  had  known,  the  life 
of  this  remote  southern  village  where  she  had  been  born  and 
brought  up.  Her  knowledge  of  the  world  outside  was — must 
be — confined  to  the  Spanish-tinted  legends  of  the  slumberous 
little  community,  to  the  limited  traditions  of  her  mother's 
small  experience,  and  to  the  perceptions  and  fancies  of  her 
own  imagination ;  these  last,  however  numerous  they  might 
be  in  themselves,  however  vivid,  must  leave  her  much  in  the 
condition  of  a  would-be  writer  of  dramas  who  has  never 
read  a  play  nor  seen  one  acted,  but  has  merely  evolved  some 
thing  vaguely  resembling  one  from  the  dreaming  depths  of 
his  own  consciousness;  Garda's  idea  of  the  world  beyond 
the  barrens  must  be  equally  vague  and  unreal.  And  then, 
as  he  looked  at  her,  sweet-natured  and  indifferent,  walking 
onward  with  her  indolent  step  over  her  own  land,  under  the 
low  blue  sky,  it  came  over  him  suddenly  that  probably  she 
had  not  troubled  herself  to  evolve  anything,  to  think  much 
of  any  world,  good  or  bad,  outside  of  her  own  personality. 
And  he  said  to  himself  that  wherever  she  was  would  be 
world  enough  for  most  men.  In  which  class,  however,  he 
again  did  not  include  Evert  Wintlirop. 

The  path  made  a  sudden  turn,  and  stopped.  It  had 
brought  them  to  the  borders  of  a  waste. 

"This  was  one  of  the  sugar  fields,"  said  Garda,  with  her 
little  air  of  uninterested  proprietorship. 

Two  old  roads,  raised  on  embankments,  crossed  the  level, 
one  from  north  to  south,  the  other  from  east  to  west.  The 
verge  upon  which  they  stood  had  once  been  a  road  also, 
though  now  narrowed  and  in  some  places  blocked  by  the 
bushes  which  had  grown  across  it.  "  A  little  farther  on, 
beyond  that  point,  you  will  find  our  ruin,"  said  Garda. 


24  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  There  will  not  be  time  to  sketch  it,  I  will  wait  for  you 
here." 

u  You  arc  deserting  me  very  soon." 

"I  am  not  deserting  you  at  all,  I  intend  to  take  you  re 
morselessly  over  the  entire  place.  But  there  are  thorns  in 
those  bushes,  and  thorns  are  dangerous." 

"  I  know  it,  I  am  already  wounded." 

"  I  mean  that  the  briers  might  tear  my  dress,"  explained 
Miss  Thome,  with  dignity. 

This  stately  rejection  of  so  small  and,  as  it  were,  self-made 
a  pun  entertained  her  companion  highly;  it  showed  how  un 
familiar  she  was  with  the  usual  commonplaces.  Talking  with 
her  would  be  not  unlike  talking  with  a  princess  in  a  fairy  tale 
— one  of  those  who  have  always  lived  mysteriously  impris 
oned  in  a  tower ;  such  a  damsel,  regarding  her  own  rank, 
would  be  apt  to  have  a  standard  which  might  strike  the  first 
comer  as  fantastically  high.  His  entertainment,  however, 
was  not  visible  as,  with  a  demeanor  modelled  upon  the  re 
quirements  of  her  dignity,  he  bent  back  the  thorny  bushes 
of  the  green  cape,  and  made  a  passageway  for  her  round  its 
point.  When  his  little  roadway  was  finished,  she  came  over 
it  with  her  leisurely  step,  as  though  (he  said  to  himself)  it 
and  the  whole  world,  including  his  own  poor  individuality, 
belonged  to  her  by  inherited  right,  whenever  she  should 
choose  to  claim  them.  He  was  well  aware  that  he  was  say 
ing  to  himself  a  good  many  things  about  this  girl ;  but  was 
it  not  natural — coming  unexpectedly  upon  so  much  beauty, 
set  in  so  unfamiliar  a  frame?  It  was  a  new  portrait,  and  he 
was  fond  of  portraits;  in  picture-galleries  he  always  looked 
more  at  the  portraits  than  at  anything  else. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  thorny  cape  the  ruin  came  into 
view,  standing  back  in  a  little  arena  of  its  own.  Two  of  its 
high  stone  walls  remained  upright,  irregularly  broken  at  the 
top,  and  over  them  clambered  a  vine  with  slender  leaves  and 
long  curling  sprays  that  thrust  themselves  boldly  out  into 
the  air,  covered  with  bell-shaped,  golden  blossoms.  This  was 
the  yellow  jessamine,  the  lovely  wild  jessamine  of  Florida. 

"  You  will  look  at  it,  please,  from  the  other  side,"  an 
nounced  Garda;  "it  looks  best  from  there.  There  will  not 
be  time  to  sketch  it." 


EAST  ANGELS.  25 

"  Why  do  you  keep  taking  it  for  granted  that  I  sketch  ? 
Do  I  look  like  an  artist?1' 

"Oh  no;  I've  never  seen  an  artist,  but  I'm  sure  you  don't 
look  like  one.  I  suppose  you  sketch  simply  because  I  sup 
pose  northerners  can  do  everything;  I  shall  be  fearfully  dis 
appointed  if  they  cannot — when  I  see  them." 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  them  ?" 

"  I  wish  to  see  hundreds,"  answered  Miss  Thorne,  with 
great  deliberation,  "I  wish  to  see  thousands.  I  wish  to  see 
them  at  balls;  I  have  never  seen  a  ball.  I  wish  to  see  them 
driving  in  parks  ;  I  have  never  seen  a  park.  I  wish  to  sec 
them  climbing  mountains;  I  have  never  seen  a  mountain — " 

"  They  don't  do  it  in  droves,  you  know,"  interpolated  her 
companion. 

" — I  wish  to  see  them  in  the  halls  of  Congress ;  I  have 
never  seen  Congress.  I  wish  to  see  them  at  the  Springs ;  I 
have  never  seen  Springs.  I  wish  to  see  them  wearing  dia 
monds  ;  I  have  never  seen  diamonds — " 

"The  last  is  a  wish  easily  gratified.  In  America,  as  one 
may  say,  the  diamond's  the  only  wear,"  remarked  Winthrop, 
taking  out  a  little  linen-covered  book. 

Garda  did  not  question  this  assertion,  which  reduced  her 
own  neighborhood  to  so  insignificant  an  exception  to  a  gen 
eral  rule  that  it  need  not  even  be  mentioned.  To  her  Florida 
was  Florida.  America?  That  was  quite  another  country. 

"You  are  going  to  sketch,  after  all,"  said  the  girl.  She 
looked  about  her  for  a  conveniently  shaped  fragment  among 
the  fallen  blocks,  and,  finding  one,  seated  herself,  leaning 
against  a  second  sun-warmed  fragment  which  she  took  as 
her  chair's  back.  "  I  thought  I  mentioned  that  there  would 
not  be  time,"  she  added,  indolently,  in  her  sweet  voice. 

"It  will  take  but  a  moment,"  answered  Winthrop.  "I 
am  no  artist,  as  you  have  already  mentioned ;  but,  plainly, 
as  a  northerner,  I  must  do  something,  or  fall  hopelessly  be 
low  your  expectations.  There  is  no  mountain  here  for  me  to 
climb,  there  is  no  ball  at  which  I  can  dance.  I'm  not  a  Con 
gressman  and  can't  tell  you  about  the  '  halls,'  and  I  haven't  a 
diamond  to  my  name,  not  one.  Clearly,  therefore,  I  must 
sketch;  there  is  nothing  else  left."  And  with  slow, accurate 
touch  he  began  to  pencil  an  outline  of  the  flower-starred  walls 


26  EAST  ANGELS. 

upon  his  little  page.  Garcia,  the  handle  of  her  white  umbrella 
poised  on  one  shoulder,  watched  him  from  under  its  shade. 
lie  did  not  look  up  nor  break  the  silence,  and  after  a  while 
she  closed  her  eyes  and  sat  there  motionless  in  the  flower- 
perfumed  air.  Thus  they  remained  for  fully  fifteen  minutes, 
and  Winthrop,  going  on  with  his  work,  admired  her  passive- 
ness,  he  had  never  before  seen  the  ability  to  maintain  undis 
turbed  an  easy  silence  in  a  girl  so  young.  True,  the  silence 
had  in  it  something  of  that  same  element  of  indifference 
which  he  had  noted  in  her  before  ;  but  one  could  pardon 
her  that  for  her  tranquillity,  which  was  so  charming  and  so 
rare. 

"Ah  —  sketching?"  said  a  voice,  breaking  the  stillness. 
"Yes — yes — the  old  mill  has,  I  suppose,  become  an  object 
of  antiquity  ;  we  must  think  of  it  now  as  venerable,  moss- 
grown." 

Garda  opened  her  eyes.  "  Jessamine-grown,"  she  said,  ex 
tending  her  hand. 

The  new-comer,  whose  footsteps  had  made  no  sound  on 
the  sand  as  he  came  round  the  cape  of  thorns,  now  crossed 
the  arena,  and  made  a  formal  obeisance  over  the  little  glove; 
then  he  threw  back  his  shoulders,  put  his  hands  behind  him, 
and  remained  standing  beside  her  with  a  protecting,  hospita 
ble  air,  which  seemed  to  include  not  only  herself  and  the 
stranger  artist,  but  the  ruin,  the  sky,  the  sunshine,  and  even 
to  bestow  a  general  benediction  upon  the  whole  long,  warm 
peninsula  itself,  stretching  like  a  finger  pointing  southward 
from  the  continent's  broad  palm  into  the  tropic  sea. 

But  now  Miss  Thome  laid  her  white  umbrella  upon  the 
heap  of  fallen  blocks  beside  her,  and  rose ;  she  did  this  as 
though  it  were  something  of  a  trouble,  but  a  trouble  that 
was  necessary.  She  walked  forward  several  steps,  and  turned 
first  towards  the  new-comer,  then  towards  the  younger  o-entle- 
man.  "  Let  me  present  to  you,  Doctor,  Mr.  Evert  Winthrop, 
of  New  York,"  she  said,  formally.  "Mr.  Winthrop,  this  is 
our  valued  friend,  Mr.  Reginald  Kirby,  surgeon,  of  Gracias-a- 
Dios."  She  then  returned  to  her  seat  with  the  air  of  one 
who  had  performed  an  important  task. 

Dr.  Kirby  now  advanced  and  offered  his  hand  to  Win 
throp.  He  was  a  little  man,  but  a  little  man  with  plenty  of 


EAST   ANGELS.  27 

presence  ;  he  bore — if  one  Lad  an  eye  for  such  things — a 
general  resemblance  to  a  canary-bird.  He  had  a  firm,  plump 
little  person,  upon  which  his  round,  partly  bald  head  (visi 
ble  as  he  stood  with  hat  doffed)  was  set,  with  scarcely  any 
intervention  of  neck ;  and  this  plump  person  was  attired  in 
nankeen-colored  clothes.  His  face  showed  a  small  but  prom 
inent  aquiline  nose,  a  healthily  yellow  complexion,  and  round, 
bright  black  eyes.  When  he  talked  he  moved  his  head  brisk 
ly  to  and  fro  upon  his  shoulders,  and  he  had  a  habit  of  look 
ing  at  the  person  he  was  addressing  with  one  eye  only,  his 
face  almost  in  profile,  which  was  most  bird-like  of  all.  In 
addition,  his  legs  were  short  in  proportion  to  his  body,  and 
he  stood  on  his  small,  well-shaped  feet  much  as  a  canary  bal 
ances  himself  on  his  little  claws. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  meet  yon,  sir,"  he  said  to  Winthrop. 
"  I  esteem  it  a  fortunate  occurrence,  most  fortunate,  which 
brought  me  to  East  Angels  this  evening  to  pay  my  respects 
to  Mistress  Thome,  thus  obtaining  for  myself,  in  addition, 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  Mistress  Thome  having 
mentioned  to  me  that  you  were  making  a  little  tour  of  the 
place  with  Miss  Garda,  I  offered  to  bear  you  company  during 
a  portion,  at  least,  of  your  progress,  for  Miss  Garda,  though 
possessing  an  intelligence  delicately  keen,  may  not  (being 
f'eminine)  remember  to  present  you  with  the  statistics,  the — 
as  I  may  say — historical  items,  which  would  naturally  be  in 
teresting  to  a  northerner  of  discrimination."  The  Doctor 
had  a  fine  voice;  his  words  were  borne  along  on  it  like  state 
ly  ships  on  the  current  of  a  broad  river. 

"  Do  not  praise  me  too  highly,"  said  the  possessor  of  the 
delicate  intelligence,  from  her  block.  "  I  could  never  live  up 
to  it,  yon  know." 

"  Miss  Thornc  has  said  many  interesting  things,"  answer 
ed  Winthrop,  "  but  she  has  not  as  yet,  I  think,  favored  me 
with  anything  historical ;  her  attention  has  perhaps  been 
turned  rather  more  to  the  agricultural  side." 

"Agricultural?"  said  Kirby,  bringing  to  bear  upon  Win 
throp  a  bright  left  eye. 

"  He  is  making  sport  of  me,"  explained  Garda,  laughing. 

"Pooh!  pooh  !"  said  the  Doctor,  raising  himself  a  little, 
first  on  his  toes,  then  on  his  heels,  thus  giving  to  his  plump 


28  EAST  ANGELS. 

person  a  slightly  balancing  motion  to  and  fro.  "A  little 
more  seriousness,  Garcia,  my  child;  a  little  more  seriousness." 
Then,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  he  turned  to  Winthrop  to 
present,  in  his  full  tones,  one  of  the  historical  items  of  which 
he  had  spoken.  "  These  walls,  Mr.  Winthrop,  whose  shatter 
ed  ruins  now  rise  before  you,  once  formed  part  of  a  large 
sugar-mill,  which  was  destroyed  by  the  Indians  during  the 
Seminole  war.  This  province,  sir,  has  had  a  vast  deal  of 
trouble  with  her  Indians  —  a  vast  deal.  The  nature  of  the 
country  has  afforded  them  every  protection,  and  clogged  pur 
suit  with  monstrous  difficulties,  which,  I  may  add,  have  never 
been  in  the  least  appreciated  by  those  unfamiliar  with  the 
ground.  The  records  of  our  army — I  speak,  sir,  of  the  old 
array,"  said  the  Doctor,  after  a  moment's  pause,  making  his 
little  explanation  with  a  courteous  wave  of  the  hand,  which  dis 
missed,  as  between  himself  and  the  guest  of  Mistress  Thome, 
all  question  as  to  the  army  which  was  newer — "these 
records,  sir,  are  full  of  stories  of  the  most  harassing  cam 
paigns,  made  up  and  down  this  peninsula  by  our  soldiers,  in 
pursuit — vain  pursuit — of  a  slippery,  creeping,  red-skinned, 
damnable  foe.  Canebrake,  swamp,  hammock  ;  hammock, 
swamp,  canebrake ;  ague,  sunstroke,  everglade ;  fever,  scalp 
ing,  ambuscade ;  and  massacre — massacre — massacre  ! — such, 
sir, 'arc  the  terms  that  succeed  each  other  endlessly  on  those 
old  pages;  words  that  represent,  I  venture  to  say, more  brav 
ery,  more  heroic  and  unrequited  endurance,  than  formed  part 
of  many  a  campaign  that  shines  out  to-day  brilliantly  on  his 
tory's  lying  scroll.  Yet  who  knows  anything  of  them?  I 
ask  you,  who  ?"  The  Doctor's  fine  voice  was  finer  still  in  in 
dignation. 

"As  it  happens,  by  a  chance,  I  do,"  answered  Winthrop. 
"A  cousin  of  my  father's  was  in  some  of  those  campaigns. 
I  well  remember  the  profound  impression  which  the  Indian 
names  in  his  letters  used  to  make  upon  me  when  a  boy — the 
Withlacoochee,  the  Caloosahatchee,  the  Suwannee,  the  Ock- 
lawaha;  they  seemed  to  me  to  represent  all  that  was  tropi 
cal  and  wild  and  far,  far  away." 

"They  represented  days  of  wading  up  to  one's  waist  in 
stiff  marsh -grass  and  water,  sir.  They  represented  rattle 
snakes,  moccasius,  and  adders,  sir.  They  represented  cverv 


EAST  ANGELS.  29 

plague  of  creation,  from  the  mosquito  down  to  the  alligator, 
that  great  pig  of  the  Florida  waters.  They  representedlono-, 
fruitless  tramps  over  the  burning  barrens,  with  the  strong 
probability  of  being  shot  down  at  the  last  by  a  cowardly  foe^ 
skulking  behind  a  tree,"  declaimed  the  Doctor,  still  indig 
nant.  "But  this  cousin  of  yours — would  you  do  me  the 
favor  of  his  name?'' 

"  Carey— Richard  Carey." 

"  Ah  !  Major  Carey,  without  doubt,"  said  the  little  gentle 
man,  softening  at  once  into  interest.  "  Allow  me — was  he 
sometimes  called  Dizzy  Dick?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  heard  that  name  applied 
to  him,"  answered  Winthrop,  smiling. 

"  Sir,  you  need  not  be,"  responded  the  other  man,  with 
warmth  ;  "  Dizzy  Dick  was  one  of  the  finest  and  bravest  gen 
tlemen  of  the  old  army.  My  elder  brother  Singleton — Cap 
tain  Singleton  Kirby — was  of  his  regiment,  and  knew  and 
loved  him  well.  I  am  proud  to  take  a  relative  of  his  by 
the  hand  —  proud  !"  So  saying,  the  Doctor  offered  his  own 
again,  and  the  two  men  went  gravely  through  the  ceremony 
of  friendship  a  second  time,  under  the  walls  of  the  old  mill." 

"Returning  to  our  former  subject,"  began  the  Doctor 
again — "for  I  hope  to  have  many  further  opportunities  for 
conversation  with  you  concerning  your  distinguished  relative 
— I  should  add,  while  we  are  still  beside  this  memento,  that 
the  early  Spanish  settlers  of  this  coast — " 

"  As  a  last  wish,"  interrupted  Garcia,  in  a  drowsy  voice, 
"  wait  for  the  resurrection." 

"As  a  last  wish?"  said  the  Doctor,  turning  his  profile  to 
wards  her  with  his  head  on  one  side,  in  his  canary-bird  way. 

"  Yes.  I  see  that  you  have  begun  upow  the  history  of  the 
Spaniards  in  Florida,  and  as  I  shall  certainly  fall  asleep,  I 
think  I  ought  to  protect,  as  i'ar  as  possible  beforehand,  my 
own  especial  ancestors,"  she  answered,  still  somnolent;  "  they 
always  have  that  effect  upon  me — the  Spaniards  in  Florida." 
And  as  she  slowly  pronounced  these  last  words  the  long  lash 
es  drooped  over  her  eyes,  she  let  her  head  fall  back  against 
the  block  behind  her,  and  was  apparently  lost  in  dreams. 

In  this  seeming  slumber  she  made  a  lovely  picture.  But 
its  chief  charm  to  Evert  Wiuthrop  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  had 


30  EAST  ANGELS. 

in  it  so  ranch  more  of  the  sportiveness  of  the  child  than  of 
the  consciousness  of  the  woman.  "  I  am  interested  in  the 
old  Spaniards,  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  but  not  to  the  extent  of 
allowing  them  to  put  you  to  sleep  in  this  fashion.  We  will 
leave  them  where  they  are  for  the  present  (of  course  Elysium), 
and  ask  you  to  take  us  to  the  crane  ;  his  powers  of  entertain 
ment  are  evidently  greater  than  our  own."  And  he  offered 
his  hand  as  if  to  assist  her  to  rise. 

"I  am  not  quite  gone  yet,"  replied  Garda, laughing,  as  she 
rose  without  accepting  it.  "  But  we  must  take  things  in  their 
regular  order,  the  magnolias  come  next;  the  crane,  as  our 
greatest  attraction,  is  kept  for  the  last."  And  she  led  the 
way  along  a  path  which  brought  them  to  a  grove  of  sweet- 
gum-trees  ;  the  delicately  cut  leaves  did  not  make  a  thick 
foliage,  but  adorned  the  boughs  with  lightness,  each  one  vis 
ible  on  its  slender  stalk;  the  branches  were  tenanted  by  a 
multitude  of  little  birds,  whose  continuous  carols  kept  the  air 
filled  with  a  shower  of  fine  small  notes. 

"  How  they  sing !"  said  Winthrop.  "  I  am  amazed  at  my 
self  for  never  having  been  in  Florida  before.  The  Suwannee 
River  can't  be  far  from  here. 

"  "Way  down  upon  dc  Suwannee  River, 
Fur,  far  away — ' 

I  must  confess  that  Nilsson's  singing  it  is  the  most  I  know 
about  it." 

"  Nilsson  !"  said  Garda,  envyingly. 

"You,  sir,  are  too  young,  unfortunately  too  young,  to  re 
member  the  incomparable  Malibran,"  said  Dr.  Kirby.  "  Ah  ! 
there  was  a  voice !"  And  with  recollections  too  nch  for  ut 
terance,  lie  shook  his  head  several  times,  and  silently  waved 
his  hand. 

"Oh,  when  shall  /  hear  something  or  somebody?"  said 
Garda. 

"We  shall  accomplish  it,  we  shall  accomplish  it  yet,  my 
dear  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  coming  briskly  back  to  the  pres 
ent  in  her  behalf.  "  Malibran  is  gone.  Her  place  can  never 
be  filled.  But  I  hope  that  you  too  may  cross  the  seas  some 
day,  and  find,  if  not  the  atmosphere  of  the  grand  style,  which 
was  hers  and  perished  with  her,  at  least  an  atmosphere  more 


EAST  ANGELS.  31 

enlarging  than  this.  And  there  will  be  other  associations 
open  to  you  in  those  countries  besides  the  musical — associa 
tions  in  the  highest  degree  interesting ;  you  can  pay  a  visit, 
for  instance,  to  the  scenes  described  in  the  engaging  pages 
of  Fanny  Burney,  incomparably  the  greatest,  and  I  fear,  from 
the  long  dearth  which  has  followed  her,  the  last  of  female 
novelists.  For  who  is  there  since  her  day  worthy  to  hold  a 
descriptive  pen,  and  what  has'  been  written  that  is  worth  our 
reading?  With  the  exception  of  some  few  things  by  two  or 
three  ladies  of  South  Carolina,  which  I  have  had  the  privilege 
of  seeing,  and  which  exist,  I  regret  to  say,  only  in  manuscript 
as  yet,  I  know  of  nothing — no  one." 

Winthrop  glanced  at  Garda  to  see  if  her  face  would  show 
merriment  over  the  proposed  literary  pilgrimage.  But  no, 
the  young  girl  accepted  Miss  Burney  calmly ;  she  had  heard 
the  Doctor  declaim  on  the  subject  all  her  life,  and  was  accus 
tomed  to  think  of  the  lady  as  a  celebrated  historical  charac 
ter,  as  school-boys  think  of  Helen  of  Troy. 

Beyond  the  grove,  they  came  to  the  Levels.  Great  trees 
rose  here,  extending  their  straight  boughs  outward  as  far  as 
they  could  reach,  touching  nothing  but  the  golden  air.  For 
each  stood  alone,  no  neighbor  near ;  each  was  a  king.  Black 
on  the  ground  beneath  lay  the  round  mass  of  shadow  they 
cast.  Above,  among  the  dense,  dark  foliage,  shone  out  occa 
sional  spots  of  a  lighter  green;  and  this  was  the  mistletoe. 
Besides  these  monarchs  there  were  sinuous  lines  of  verdure, 
eight  and  ten  feet  in  height,  wandering  with  grace  over  the 
plain.  Most  of  the  space,  however,  was  free — wide,  sunny 
glades  open  to  the  sky.  The  arrangement  of  the  whole,  of 
the  great  single  trees,  the  lines  of  lower  verdure,  and  the  sun 
ny  glades,  was  as  beautiful  as  though  Art  had  planned  and 
Time  had  perfected  the  work.  Time's  touch  was  there,  but 
Art  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Each  tree  had  risen 
from  the  ground  where  it  and  Nature  pleased  ;  birds,  perhaps, 
with  dropped  seeds,  had  been  the  first  planters  of  the  lower 
growths.  Yet  it  was  not  primeval ;  Winthrop,  well  used  to 
primeval  things,  and  liking  them  (to  gratify  the  liking  he 
had  made  more  than  one  journey  to  the  remoter  parts  of  the 
great  West),  detected  this  at  once.  Open  and  free  as  the 
Levels  were,  he  could  yet  see,  as  he  walked  onward,  the  signs 


32  EAST  ANGELS. 

of  a  former  cultivation  antecedent  to  all  this  soft,  wild  leisure. 
His  eye  could  trace,  by  their  line  of  fresher  green,  the  course 
of  the  old  drains  crossing  regularly  from  east  to  west ;  the 
large  trees  were  sometimes  growing  from  furrows  which  had 
been  made  by  the  plough  before  their  first  tiny  twin  leaves 
had  sprouted  from  the  acorn  which  had  fallen  there.  "  How 
stationary  things  are  here!"  he  said,  half  admiringly.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  ceaseless  round  of  change  and  improve 
ment  which  went  on,  year  after  year,  on  the  northern  farms 
he  knew,  of  the  thrift  which  turned  every  inch  of  the  land  to 
account,  and  made  it  do  each  season  its  full  share.  The 
thrift,  the  constant  change  and  improvement,  were  best,  of 
course;  Winthrop  was  a  warm  believer  in  the  splendid  in 
dustries  of  the  great  republic  to  which  he  belonged ;  person 
ally,  too,  there  was  nothing  of  the  idler  in  his  temperament. 
Still,  looked  at  in  another  way,  the  American  creed  for  the 
moment  dormant,  there  was  something  delightfully  restful 
in  the  indolence  of  these  old  fields,  lying  asleep  in  the  sun 
shine  with  the  low  furrows  of  a  hundred  years  before  stretch 
ing  undisturbed  across  them.  Here  was  no  dread,  no  eager 
speed  before  the  winter.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  absence  of 
that  icy  taskmaster  which  gave  to  all  the  lovely  land  its  ap 
pearance  of  dreaming  leisure.  Growing  could  begin  at  any 
time;  why, then,  make  haste? 

"All  this  ground  was  once  under  cultivation,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "The  first  Edgar  Thome  (your  great-grandfather, 
Garda)  I  conjecture  to  have  been  a  man  of  energy,  who  im 
proved  the  methods  of  the  Dueros;  these  Levels  probably 
had  a  very  different  aspect  a  hundred  years  ago." 

"A  hundred  years  ago — yes,  that  was  the  time  to  have 
lived,"  said  Garda.  "I  wish  I  could  have  lived  a  hundred 
years  ago !" 

<c  I  don't  know  what  we  can  do,"  said  Winthrop.  "Per 
haps  Dr.  Kirby  would  undertake  for  a  while  the  stately  man 
ners  of  your  Spanish  ancestors;  I  could  attempt,  humbly, 
those  of  the  British  colonist;  I  haven't  the  high-collared 
coat  of  the  period,  but  I  would  do  my  best  with  the  high- 
collared  language  which  has  been  preserved  in  literature. 
Pray  take  my  arm,  and  let  me  try." 

Garda,  looking  merrily  at  the  Doctor,  accepted  it. 


EAST  ANGELS.  33 

"Arms  were  not  taken  in  those  days,"  said  the  Doctor, 
stiffly.  "  Ladies  were  led,  delicately  led,  by  the  tips  of 
their  lingers."  He  was  not  pleased  with  Garda's  ready 
acceptance;  but  they  had  kept  her  a  child,  and  she  did 
not  know.  He  flattered  himself  that  it  would  be  an  easy 
matter  to  bring  about  a  withdrawal  of  that  too  freely  ac 
corded  hand  from  the  northerner's  arm ;  he,  Reginald  Kirby, 
man  of  the  world  and  noted  for  his  tact,  would  be  able  to 
accomplish  it.  In  the  mean  while,  the  hand  remained  where 
it  was. 

Beyond  the  Levels  they  came  to  the  edge  of  a  bank.  Be 
low,  the  ground  descended  sharply,  and  at  some  distance  for 
ward  on  the  lower  plateau  rose  the  great  magnolias,  lifting 
their  magnificent  glossy  foliage  high  in  the  air.  "The  Mag 
nolia  Grandiflora,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  if  introducing  them. 
"You  no  doubt  feel  an  interest  in  these  characteristically 
southern  trees,  Mr.  Winthrop,  and  if  you  will  walk  down 
there  and  stand  under  them  for  a  moment — the  ground  is 
too  wet  for  your  little  shoes,  Garda — you  will  obtain  a  very 
good  idea  of  their  manner  of  growth." 

Miss  Thome  made  no  objection  to  this  suggestion.  But 
neither  did  she  withdraw  her  hand  from  Winthrop's  arm. 

"I  can  see  them  perfectly  from  here,"  answered  that  gen 
tleman.  "  They  are  like  tremendous  camellias." 

"  When  they  are  in  bloom,  and  all  the  sweet-bays  too,  it 
is  superb,"  said  Garda  ;  "  then  is  the  time  to  come  here,  the 
perfume  is  enchanting." 

"Too  dense,"  said  the  Doctor, shaking  his  head  disapprov 
ingly  ;  "  it's  fairly  intoxicating." 

"  That  is  what  T  mean,"  Garda  responded.  "  It's  as  near  as 
I  can  come  to  it,  you  know  ;  I  have  always  thought  I  should 
love  to  be  intoxicated." 

"What  is  your  idea  of  it?"  said  Winthrop,  speaking  im 
mediately,  in  order  to  prevent  the  Doctor  from  speaking; 
for  he  saw  that  this  gentleman  was  gazing  at  Garda  with 
amazement,  and  divined  the  solemnity  his  words  would  as 
sume  after  he  should  have  got  his  breath  back. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  describe  my  idea,"  Garda  was  an 
swering.  "It's  a  delicious  forgetting  of  everything  that  is 
tiresome,  an  enthusiasm  that  makes  you  feel  as  if  you  could 

3 


34  EAST  ANGELS. 

do  anything — that  takes  you  way  above  stupid  people.  Stu 
pid  people  arc  worse  than  thieves." 

"  You  describe  the  intoxication,  or  rather,  to  give  it  a  bet 
ter  name,  the  inspiration  of  genius,"  said  Winthrop  ;  "  all  ar 
tists  feel  this  inspiration  at  times — musicians,  poets,  painters, 
sculptors,  all  who  have  in  them  a  spark,  great  or  small,  of  the 
creative  fire ;  even  I,  when  with  such  persons — as  by  good 
fortune  I  have  been  once  or  twice — have  been  able  to  com 
prehend  a  little  of  it,  have  caught,  by  reflection  at  least,  a 
tinge  of  its  glow." 

"  Oh,  if  you  have  felt  it,  it  is  not  at  all  what  I  mean,"  an 
swered  Garda,  with  one  of  her  sudden  laughs.  She  drew 
her  hand  from  his  arm,  and  walked  down  the  slope  across 
the  lower  level  towards  the  magnolias. 

As  soon  as  her  back  was  turned,  Dr.  Kirby  tapped  Win 
throp  on  the  back  impressively,  and  raising  himself  on  tiptoe, 
spoke  in  his  ear.  "  She  has  never,  sir,  been  near — I  may  say, 
indeed,  that  she  has  never  seen — an  intoxicated  person  in  her 
life."  lie  then  came  down  to  earth  again,  and  folding  his 
arms,  surveyed  the  northerner  challengingly. 

"  Of  course  I  understood  that,"  Winthrop  answered. 

When  Garda  reached  the  dark  shade  under  the  great  trees 
she  paused  and  turned.  Winthrop  had  followed  her.  She 
gave  him  a  bright  smile  as  he  joined  her.  "  I  wanted  to  see 
if  you  would  come,"  she  said,  with  her  usual  frankness. 

"  Of  course  I  came ;  what  did  you  suppose  I  would  do  ?" 

"I  did  not  know,  that  was  what  I  wanted  to  find  out. 
You  are  so  different,  I  should  never  know." 

"  Different  from  whom  ?  From  your  four  persons  about 
here?  I  assure  you  that  I  am  not  different,  I  have  no  such 
pretension  ;  your  four  are  different,  perhaps,  but  I  am  like 
five  thousand,  fifty  thousand,  others  —  as  you  will  see  for 
yourself  when  you  come  north." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Garda,  beginning  to  retrace  her 
steps.  She  looked  at  him  reflectively,  then  added,"  I  don't 
believe  they  are  like  you." 

"  What  is  it  in  me  that  you  dislike  so  much  ?" 

"Oh,  I  haven't  thought  whether  I  dislike  it  or  not,"  re 
sponded  Garda,  with  what  he  called  in  his  own  mind  her 
sweet  indifference.  "What  I  meant  was  simply  that  I  do 


EAST  ANGELS.  35 

not  believe  there  arc  fifty  thousand,  or  five  thousand,  or  even 
five  hundred  other  men,  who  are  as  cold  as  you  arc." 

"  Do  I  strike  you  in  that  way  2'' 

"Yes;  but  of  course  you  cannot  help  it,  it  is  probably  a 
part  of  your  nature — this  coldness,"  said  the  girl,  excusingly. 
**  It  was  that  which  made  me  say  that  you  could  never  have 
felt  the  feeling  I  was  trying  to  describe,  you  know — intoxi 
cation  ;  it  needs  a  certain  sort  of  temperament ;  I  have  it,  but 
you  haven't." 

"I  sec  you  are  an  observer," said  her  companion,  inwardly 
smiling,  but  preserving  a  grave  face. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Garcia,  serenely,  "  I  observe  a  great  deal ; 
it  helps  to  pass  the  time." 

"  You  have  opportunities  for  exercising  the  talent  ?" 

"  Plenty." 

"  The  four  persons  about  here  ?" 

Garda's  laugh  rippled  forth  again.  "  My  poor  four— how 
you  make  sport  of  them !  But  I  should  have  said  five,  be 
cause  there  is  the  crane,  and  he  is  the  wisest  of  all ;  he  is 
wiser  than  any  one  I  know,  and  more  systematic,  he  is  more 
systematic  even  than  you  are,  which  is  saying  a  great  deal. 
His  name  is  Carlos  Mateo,  and  you  must  be  careful  not  to 
laugh  at  him  when  he  dances,  for  a  laugh  hurts  his  feelings 
dreadfully.  His  feelings  are  very  deep ;  you  might  not 
think  so  from  a  first  glance,  but  that  will  be  because  you 
have  not  looked  deep  into  his  eyes — taken  him  round  the 
neck  and  peered  in.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  expression ; 
you  have  none  at  all — what  has  become  of  it?  Did  you 
never  have  any,  or  have  you  worn  it  all  out?  Perhaps  you 
keep  it  for  great  occasions.  But  there  will  be  no  great  oc 
casions  here." 

"  No,  great  occasions  are  at  the  North,  where  they  arc  en 
gaged  in  climbing  mountains,  walking  on  frozen  lakes,  wear 
ing  diamonds,  and  attending  the  halls  of  Congress,"  Win- 
throp  answered. 

Dr.  Kirby  was  waiting  for  them  on  the  bank,  he  had  not 
stained  his  brightly  polished  little  boots  with^  the  damp 
earth  of  the  lower  level.  He  had  surveyed  with  inward  dis 
favor  the  thick-soled  walking  shoes  of  the  northerner,  and 
the  rough  material  of  his  gray  clothes.  The  northerner's 


36  EAST  ANGELS. 

gloves  were'  carelessly  rolled  together  in  his  pocket,  but  the 
Doctor's  old  pair  were  on. 

Garcia  led.  the  \yay  westward  along  the  bank.  After  they 
had  proceeded  some  distance,  in  single  file  owing  to  the  nar 
rowness  of  the  path,  she  suddenly  left  her  place,  and,  pass 
ing  the  Doctor,  took  Winthrop's  hand  in  hers.  "  Close  your 
"eyes,"  she  commanded ;  "  I  am  going  to  lead  you  to  a  heav 
enly  wall." 
.Winthrop  obeyed;  but  retarded  his  steps. 

"  How  slow  you  are !"  she  said,  giving  his  hand  a  little 
pull. 

"It's  a  wild  country  for  a  blind  man,"  Winthrop  answer 
ed,  continuing  to  advance  with  caution.  "  Please  take  both 
hands." 

"  Let  me  lead  him,  Garda,"  said  the  Doctor,  preferring  to 
join  in  this  child's  play  rather  than  have  her  continue  it 
alone. 

But  the  child's  play  was  over,  the  bend  in  the  path  had 
been  but  a  short  one,  and  they  were  now  before  her  "heav 
enly  wall."  Winthrop,  upon  being  told  to  open  his  eyes — 
he  had  perhaps  kept  them  closed  longer  than  was  absolutely 
necessary — found  himself  standing  before  a  wall  of  verdure, 
fifteen  feet  high,  composed  of  a  mass  of  shining  little  leaves 
set  closely  together  in  an  almost  even  expanse  ;  this  lustrous 
green  was  spangled  with  white  flowers  widely  open,  the  five 
petals  laid  flatly  back  like  a  star. 

"The  Cherokee  rose,"  said  Dr.  Kirby.  He  had  been  great 
ly  vexed  by  Garda's  freak  of  taking  Winthrop's  hands  and 
pulling  him  along,  and  as  he  added,  explanatorily,  "the  wild 
white  rose  of  the  South,"  he  glanced  at  him  to  see  how  he, 
as  a  northerner  and  stranger,  regarded  it. 

But  the  stranger  and  northerner  was  gazing  at  the  south 
ern  flowers  with  an  interest  which  did  not  appear  to  depend 
at  all  upon  the  southern  girl  who  had  brought  him  thither. 

Garcja  remained  but  a  moment;  while  they  were  looking  at 
the  roses  she  walked  slowly  on,  following  her  heavenly  wall. 

"  She  is  but  a  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking  after  her. 
."  We  have  perhaps  kept  her  one  too  long." 

"On  the  contrary,  that  i.s  her  charm,"  replied  Winthrop. 
"How  old  is  she?" 


EAST  ANGELS.  37 

"Barely  sixteen.  If  her  father  had  lived,  it  would  per 
haps  have  been  better  for  her;  she  would  have  had  in  that 
case,  probably,  more  seriousness — a  little  more.  Mistress 
Thome's  ideas  concerning  the  training  of  children  arc  ad 
mirable,  most  admirable;  but  they  presuppose  a  certain  kind 
of  child,  and  Garda  wasn't  that  kind  at  all ;  I  may  say,  in 
deed,  the  contrary.  Mistress  Thorne  has  therefore  found 
herself  at  fault  now  and  then,  her  precedents  have  failed 
her ;  she  has  been  met  by  perplexities,  sometimes  I  have 
even  thought  her  submerged  in  them  and  floundering— if 
I  may  use  such  an  expression  of  the  attitude  of  a  cultured 
lady.  The  truth  is,  her  perceptions  have  been  to  blame." 

"Yet  I  have  thought  her  perceptions  unusually  keen," 
said  Winthrop.  f--:l 

."So .'they  are,  so  they  are;  but  they  all  advance  between 
certain  lines,  they  are  narrow.  Understand  me,  however— 
I  would  not  have  them  wider;  I  was  not  wishing  that,  I  was 
only  wishing  that  poor  Edgar,  the  father,  could  have  lived 
ten  years  longer.  Too  wide  a  perception,  sir,  in  a  woman, 
a  perception  of  things  in  general — general  views  in  shprt— 
I  regard  as  an  open  door  to  immorality ;  women  so  endowed 
arc  sure  to  go  wrong — as  witness  Aspasia.  It  was  a  beauti 
ful  provision  of  nature  that  made  the  feminine  perceptions, 
as  a  general  rule,  so  limited,  so  confined  to  details,  to  the 
opinions  and  beliefs  of  their  own  families  and  neighbor 
hoods  ;  in  this  restricted  view  lies  all  their  safety." 

"And  ours?"  suggested  Winthrop. 

"  Ah,  you  belong  to  the  new  school  of  thought,  I  perceive," 
observed  the  Doctor,  stroking  his  smoothly  shaven  chin  with 
his  plump  gloved  hand. 

The  two  men  had  begun  to  walk  onward  again,  following 
their  guide  who  was  now  at  the  end  of  the  rose  wall.  Here 
she  disappeared;  when  they  reached  the  spot  they  found 
that  she  had  taken  a  path  which  turned  northward  along  a 
little  ridge — a  path  bordered  on  each  side  by  stiff  Spanish- 
bayonets. 

"Garda's  education,  however,  'has  been,  on  the  _  whole, 
good,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  they  too  turned  into  this  aisle. 
"  Mistress  Thome,  who  was  herself  an  instructress  of  youth 
before  her  marriage,  has  been  her  teacher  in  English  branch- 


38  EAST  ANGELS. 

cs;  Spanish,  of  course,  she  learned  from  the  Old  Madam; 
my  sister  Pamela  (whom  I  had  the  great  misfortune  to  lose 
a  little  over  a  year  ago)  gave  her  lessons  in  embroidery,  gen 
eral  deportment,  and  the  rudiments  of  French.  As  regards 
any  knowledge  of  the  world,  however,  the  child  has  lived  in 
complete  ignorance ;  we  have  thought  it  better  so,  while 
things  remain  as  they  are.  My  own  advice  has  decidedly 
been  that  until  she  could  enter  the  right  society,  the  society 
of  the  city  of  Charleston,  for  instance — it  was  better  that 
she  should  see  none  at  all ;  she  has  therefore  lived,  and  still 
continues  to  live,  the  life,  as  I  may  well  call  it,  of  a  novice 
or  nun." 

"The  young  gentleman  who  has  just  joined  her  is  then, 
possibly,  a  monk?"  observed  Winthrop. 

The  Doctor  was  near-sighted,  and  not  at  all  fond  of  his 
spectacles;  with  his  bright  eyes  and  quickly  turning  glance, 
it  humiliated  him  to  be  obliged  to  take  out  and  put  on  these 
cumbrous  aids  to  vision.  On  this  occasion,  however,  he  did 
it  with  more  alacrity  than  was  usual  with  him.  "  Ah,"  he 
said,  when  he  had  made  out  the  two  figures  in  front,  "  it  is 
only  young  Torres,  a  boy  from  the  next  plantation." 

"  A  well-grown  boy,"  commented  the  northerner. 

"  A  mere  stripling — a  mere  stripling  of  nineteen.  lie  lias 
but  lately  come  out  from  Spain  (a  Cuban  by  birth,  but  was 
sent  over  there  to  be  educated),  and  he  cannot  speak  one 
word  of  English,  sir — not  one  word." 

"  I  believe  Miss  Thome  speaks  Spanish,  doesn't  she  ?"  re 
marked  Winthrop. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  Doctor  admitted  that  Garda  could  converse  in  Span 
ish.  He  suggested  that  they  should  walk  on  and  join  her ; 
joining  her,  of  course,  meant  joining  Torres.  The  Cuban 
proved  to  be  a  dark-skinned  youth,  with  dull  black  eyes,  a 
thin  face,  and  black  hair,  closely  cut,  that  stood  up  in  straight 
thickness  all  over  his  head,  defying  parting,  lie  was  tall, 
gaunt,  with  a  great  want  of  breadth  in  the  long  expanse  of 


EAST  ANGELS.  39 

his  person  ;  he  was  deliberate  in  all  his  motions ;  ungainly. 
Yet  he  could  not  have  been  described  as  insignificant  ex 
actly ;  a  certain  deep  reticent  consciousness  of  his  own  im 
portance,  which  was  visible  in  every  one  of  his  slow,  stiff 
movements,  in  every  glance  of  his  dull,  reserved  eyes,  saved 
him  from  that.  He  bowed  profoundly  when  introduced  to 
the  northerner,  but  said  nothing.  He  did  not  speak  after 
the  others  came  up.  When  Garda  addressed  him,  he  con 
tented  himself  with  another  bow. 

They  all  walked  on  together,  and  after  some  minutes  the 
little  ridge,  winding  with  its  sentinel  bayonets  across  old 
fields,  brought  them  to  the  main  avenue  of  the  place.  This 
old  road,  broad  as  it  was,  was  completely  overarched  by  the 
great  live-oaks  which  bordered  it  on  each  side ;  the  boughs 
rose  high  in  the  air,  met,  interlaced,  and  passed  on,  each 
stretching  completely  over  the  centre  of  the  roadway  and 
curving  downward  on  the  opposite  side ;  looking  east  and 
looking  west  was  like  looking  through  a  Gothic  aisle,  vault 
ed  in  gray -green.  The  little  party  entered  this  avenue; 
Garda,  after  a  few  moments,  again  separated  herself  from 
Winthrop  and  Dr.  Kirby,  and  walked  on  in  advance  with 
Torres.  The  Doctor  looked  after  them,  discomfited. 

"  We  should  have  spoken  Spanish,"  said  Winthrop,  smil 
ing. 

"  I  do  not  know  a  word  of  the  language !"  declared  the 
Doctor,  with  something  of  the  exasperation  of  fatigue  in 
his  voice. 

For  the  Doctor  was  not  in  the  habit  of  walking,  and  he 
did  not  like  to  walk;  the  plump  convexes  of  his  comfort 
able  person  formed,  indeed,  rather  too  heavy  a  weight  for 
his  small  feet  in  their  little  boots.  But  he  was  far  too  de 
voted  a  family  friend  to  be  turned  back  from  obvious  duty 
by  the  mere  trifle  of  physical  fatigue ;  he  therefore  waved 
his  hand  towards  the  live-oaks,  and  (keeping  one  eye  well 
upon  Garda  and  her  companion  in  front)  resumed  with 
grace  his  descriptive  discourse.  "  These  majestic  old  trees, 
Mr.  Winthrop,  were  set  out  to  adorn  the  main  avenue  of 
the  place,  leading  from  the  river  landing  up  to  the  mansion- 
house.  You  will  find  a  few  of  these  old  avenues  in  this 
neighborhood  ;  but  far  finer  ones— the  finest  in  the  world— 


40  EAST  ANGELS. 

at  the  old  places  on  the  Ashley  and  Cooper  rivers,  near  the 
city  of  Charleston." 

•'  But  there  are  no  trees  near  the  house,"  said  Winthrop ; 
•*  I  noticed  that  particularly." 

"  The  road  goes  to  the  door,  the  trees  stop  at  the  edge 
of  the  open  space ;  that  space  was  left,  as  you  have  probably 
divined,  as  a  protection  against  surprises  by  Indians." 

The  younger  man  laughed.  "  I  confess  I  was  thinking 
more  of  the  traditional  Spanish  jealousy  than  of  Indians. 
You  are  right,  of  course ;  I  must  not  allow  my  fancies, 
which  are,  after  all,  rather  operatic  in  their  origin,  to  lead 
me  astray  down  here." 

"You  will  find,  I  think,  very  little  that  is  operatic  among 
us,"  said  Kirby,  a  trace  of  sombreness  making  itself  felt  for 
the  first  time  through  the  courteous  optimism  of  his  tone. 
Truly  there  had  been  little  that  was  operatic  in  their  life  at 
the  South  for  some  years  past. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Winthrop.  "  Isn't  that  rather  an 
operatic  personage  who  has  just  stopped  Miss  Thome?  The 
Tenor  himself,  I  should  say." 

The  spectacles  were  safely  in  their  case,  and  back  in  the 
Doctor's  pocket.  But  he  now  made  haste  to  take  them  out 
a  second  time,  he  knew  of  no  Tenors  in  Gracias.  When 
he  had  adjusted  them,  "  It's  only  Manuel  Ruiz,"  he  said, 
with  both  relief  and  vexation  in  his  tone,  lie  was  relieved 
that  it  was  only  Manuel,  but  vexed  that  he  should  have 
been  led,  even  for  a  moment,  to  suppose  that  it  might  be 
some  one  else,  some  one  who  was  objectionable  (as  though 
objectionable  persons  could  penetrate  into  their  society  j)  ; 
and  he  asked  himself  inwardly  what  the  deuce  this  north 
erner  meant  by  calling  their  arrangement  of  their  land  "  oper 
atic,"  and  their  young  gentlemen  "  Tenors."  "  Manuel  Ruiz 
is  the  son  of  an  old  friend  of  ours ;  their  place  is  on  Patri- 
cio,  opposite,"  he  said,  frigidly.  "  The  Ruiz  family  were 
almost  as  well  known  here  in  the  old  Spanish  days  as  the 
Dueros." 

He  had  no  time  for  more,  for,  as  Garda  had  stopped,  they 
now  came  up  with  the  little  party  in  front. 

Manuel  Ruiz  was  older  than  Torres.  Manuel  was  twenty- 
one,  lie  was  a  tall,  graceful  youth,  with  a  mobile  face,  elo- 


EAST  ANGELS.  41 

qucnt  dark  eyes,  and  a  manner  adorned  with  much  gest 
ure  and  animation.  He  undoubtedly  cherished  an  excellent 
opinion  of  Manuel  Ruiz ;  but  undoubtedly  also  there  was 
good  ground  for  that  opinion,  Manuel  Ruiz  being  a  remark 
ably  handsome  young  man.  That  Winthrop  should  have 
called  him  operatic  was  perhaps  inevitable.  He  wore  a 
short  black  cloak,  an  end  of  which  was  tossed  over  one 
shoulder  after  the  approved  manner  of  the  operatic  young 
gentleman  when  about  to  begin,  under  the  balcony  of  his 
lady-love,  a  serenade ;  on  his  head  was  a  picturesque  som 
brero,  and  he  carried,  or  rather  flourished,  a  slender  cane, 
which  might  have  been  a  rapier;  these  properties,  together 
with  his  meridional  eyes,  his  gestures,  and  the  slight  ten 
dency  to  attitude  visible  in  his  graceful  movements,  made 
him  m itch'  like  the  ideal  young  Tenor  of  the  Italian  stage, 
as  he  comes  down  to  the  foot-lights  to  sing  in  deepest  con 
fidence,  to  the  sympathetic  audience,  of  his  loves  and  his 
woes. 

That  the  ideal  young  Tenor  has  often  encountered  wide- 
spreading  admiration,  no  one  would  venture  to  deny.  Still, 
there  have  been,  now  and  then,  those  among  his  audiences 
who  have  not  altogether  shared  this  feeling.  They  have 
generally  been  men;  not  infrequently  they  have  been  men 
of  a  somewhat  lighter  complexion,  with  visual  orbs  paler, 
perhaps,  and  not  so  expressive ;  a  grace  in  attitude  less  evi 
dent.  Evert  Winthrop  cared  nothing  for  Tenors,  real  or 
imitative.  But  he  was  a  man  made  with  more  pretensions 
to  strength  than  to  sinuousness ;  he  had  no  gestures ;  his 
complexion,  where  not  bronzed  by  exposure,  was  fair ;  his  eyes 
were  light.  They  were  gray  eyes,  with,  for  the  most  part, 
a  calm  expression.  But  they  easily  became  keen,  and  they 
could,  upon  occasion,  become  stern.  He  opposed  a  short, 
thick,  brown  beard  to  Manuel's  pointed  mustache,  and  thick, 
straight  hair,  closely  cut,  of  the  true  American  brown,  to 
the  little  luxuriant  rings,  blue-black  in  color,  short  also,  but 
curling  in  spite  of  shortness,  which  the  breeze  stirred  slight 
ly  on  the  head  of  the  handsome  young  Floridian  as  he  stood, 
sombrero  in  hand,  beside  Garda  Thornc. 

Manuel  was  not  another  Torres ;  he  was  an  American,  and 
spoke  English  perfectly.  Upon  this  occasion,  after  his  in> 


42  EAST  ANGELS. 

t-troduction,  lie  offered  to  the  northerner  with  courtesy  several 
well-turned  sentences  as  the  beginning  of  an  acquaintance, 
and  then  they  all  walked  on  together  up  the  old  road. 

"I  believe  we  have  now  finished  our  little  tour,  Miss 
Garda,  have  we  not?"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  cheerful  voice. 
Though  very  tired,  he  was  walking  onward  with  his  usual 
trim  step,  his  toes  well  turned  out,  his  shoulders  thrown 
back,  his  head  erect,  but  having  no  perception  of  the  fact 
(plump  men  never  have)  that,  as  seen  from  behind,  his  round 
person  appeared  to  be  projected  forward  into  space  as  he 
walked  with  something  of  an  overweight  in  front,  and  his 
little  legs  and  feet  to  have  been  set  on  rather  too  far  back 
to  balance  this  weight  properly,  so  that  there  seemed  to  be 
always  some  slight  danger  of  an  overthrow. 

"  Oh  no,"  answered  Garda  ;  "  I  have  promised  to  take  Mr. 
Winthrop  over  the  entire  place,  and  we  have  still  the  orange 
walk,  the  rose  garden,  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  the  wild  cat 
tle,  and  the  crane." 

"  I  doubt  whether  Mr.  Wintup  will  find  much  to  amuse 
him  in  the  wild  cattle,"  remarked  Manuel,  laughing. 

It  was  certainly  a  slight  offence :  Manuel  had  never  been 
north,  and  did  not  know  the  name;  in  addition,  owing  to 
the  mixture  of  races,  much  liberty  of  pronunciation  was  al 
lowed  in  Gracias,  Manuel  himself  seldom  hearing  his  own 
name  in  proper  form,  the  Spanish  names  of  Florida,  like  the 
Huguenot  names  of  South  Carolina,  having  undergone  more 
than  one  metamorphosis  on  New  World  shores.  Winthrop 
walked  on  without  replying,  he  seemed  not  to  have  heard 
the  remark. 

"  You  do  want  to  see  the  wild  cattle,  don't  you,  Mr.  Win 
throp  ?"  said  Garda.  "  They're  beautiful — in  glimpses." 

"  If — ah — somebody  should  ride  one  of  them — in  glimpses 
— it  might  be  entertaining,"  answered  Winthrop.  "  Per 
haps  one  of  these  young  gentlemen  would  favor  us  ?" 

Garda's  laugh  pealed  forth ;  Manuel  looked  angry,  Torres 
watched  the  scene,  but  prudently  gave  no  smile  to  what  he 
did  not  understand.  Even  the  Doctor  joined  in  Garda's  laugh. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  said  to 
Winthrop.  "Bull-fighting?  I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  be 
able  to  gratify  you  in  that  way  just  now." 


EAST  ANGELS.  43 

At  this  moment,  round  a  bend  in  the  road,  appeared  the** 
small  figure   of  Mrs.  Thome ;   she   was  advancing  towards 
them,  accompanied  by  a  gentleman  in  clerical  attire. 

"Here  is  mamma,  with  Mr.  Moore,"  said  Garda.  She  left 
the  others,  and  went  across  to  Winthrop.  "The  whole 
four,"  she  murmured  ;  "  my  four  persons  about  here." 

"  So  I  supposed,"  Winthrop  answered,  in  the  same  tone. 

The  two  parties  now  met,  and  it  was  decided  that  the 
wild  cattle  and  the  swamp  should  be  postponed  for  the  pres 
ent,  and  that  they  would  all  go  together  to  the  rose-garden, 
where,  at  this  hour,  Carlos  Matco  was  generally  to  be  found 
disporting  himself.  Garda  explained  that  he  was  disporting 
himself  with  the  roses — he  was  very  fond  of  roses,  he  was 
often  observed  gazing  with  fixed  interest  at  unclosing  buds. 
When  they  were  fully  opened,  he  ate  them  ;  this,  however, 
was  not  gluttony,  but  appreciation ;  it  was  his  only  way  of 
showing  his  admiration,  and  a  very  expressive  one,  Garda 
thought. 

"  Remarkably,"  observed  the  Doctor.  "  Captain  Cook 
was  of  the  same  opinion." 

The  live-oak  avenue  brought  them  to  the  open  space  which 
surrounded  the  house ;  crossing  this  space,  they  took  a  path 
that  came  up  to  its  border  from  the  opposite  direction. 
This  second  avenue  was  a  green  arched  walk,  whose  roof 
of  leaves  seemed,  as  one  looked  down  it,  sure  to  touch  the 
head ;  but  it  never  did,  it  was  an  illusion  produced  by  the 
stretching  vista  of  the  long  aisle.  The  same  illusion  made 
the  opposite  entrance  at  the  far  end — a  half-circle  of  yellow 
light  shining  in  from  outside  —  seem  so  low,  so  near  the 
ground,  that  one  would  inevitably  be  forced  to  creep  through 
it  on  one's  hands  and  knees  when  one  had  reached  it,  there 
would  be  no  other  way.  This,  again,  was  an  illusion,  the 
aisle  was  eight  feet  in  height  throughout  its  length.  This 
long  arbor  had  been  formed  by  bitter-sweet  orange-trees. 
Not  a  ray  of  the  sunshine  without  could  penetrate  the  thick 
foliage  ;  but  the  clear  light  color  of  the  shining  leaves  them 
selves,  with  the  sunshine  touching  them  everywhere  outside, 
made  a  cheerful  radiance  within,  and  the  aisle  was  further 
illuminated  by  the  large,  warm-looking  globes  of  the  fruit, 
thickly  hanging  like  golden  lamps  from  the  roof  of  branches. 


44  EAST  ANGELS. 

Tboro  was  an  indescribably  fresh  youthfulncss  in  this  golden- 
given  light,  it  was  as  different  from  the  rich  dark  shade 
cast  by  the  magnolias  as  from  the  gray  stillness  under  the 
old  live-oaks. 

Through  this  orange  aisle  it  pleased  Miss  Thorne  to  walk 
with  Evert  Winthrop.  Mrs.  Thorne  came  next,  with  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Moore ;  Dr.  Kirby  followed  at  a  little  distance, 
walking  alone,  and  resting,  if  not  his  feet,  at  least  his  conver 
sational  powers.  The  two  younger  men  were  last,  and  some 
yards  behind  the  others,  Torres  advancing  with  his  usual 
woodenness  of  joint,  not  indulging  in  much  conversation,  but 
giving  a  guarded  Spanish  monosyllable  now  and  then  to  his 
New  World  compatriot,  who,  still  angry,  let  his  slender  cane 
strike  the  trunks  of  the  orange-trees  as  they  passed  along, 
these  strokes  being  carefully  watched  by  Torres,  who  turned 
his  thin  neck  stiffly  each  time,  like  an  automaton,  to  see  if 
the  bark  had  received  injury. 

"We  make  quite  a  little  procession,"  said  Winthrop,  look 
ing  back.  "  We  have  four  divisions." 

"What  do  you  think  of  them?"  inquired  Garda. 

"The  divisions?" 

"  No  ;  my  four  persons  about  here." 

"Dr.  Kirby  is  delightful,  I  don't  know  when  I  have  met 
any  one  so  much  so." 

"  Delightful,"  said  Garda,  meditatively.     "  I  am  very  fond 
of  Dr.  Reginald,  he  is  almost  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the 
world;    but  delightful?  —  does  delightful  mean  —  mean- 
She  paused,  leaving  her  sentence  unfinished. 

"Docs  delightful  mean  Dr.  Kirby  ?"  said  Winthrop,  finish 
ing  it  for  her.  "Dr.  Kirby  is  certainly  delightful,  but  he 
doesn't  exhaust  the  capacity  of  the  adjective  ;  it  has  branches 
in  other  directions." 

"  And  the  others  ?" 

"  The  other  directions  ?" 

"  No ;  the  other  persons  about  here." 

"I  have  seen  Mr.  Moore  so  few  times  that  I  have  had 
scarcely  opportunity  to  form  an  opinion." 

"You  formed  one  of  Dr.  Reginald  the  first  time  you  saw 
him.  But  I  was  not  speaking  of  Mr.  Moore,  I  meant  the 
others  still." 


EAST  ANGELS.  4o 

"Those  young  natives?  Really,  I  have  not  observed 
them." 

"Now,  theKe,  I  do  not  believe  you,"  said  Garda;  "you 
have  observed  them,  you  observe  everything.  You  say  that 
to  put  them  down — why  should  you  .put  them  down  ?  You 
are  very  imperious,  why  should  you  be  imperious?"  And  she 
looked  at  him,  not  vexed  but  frankly  curious. 

"  Imperious,"  said  Winthrop  ;  "what  extraordinary  words 
you  use?  I  am  not  imperious,  as  you  call  it,  with  you." 

"  No ;  but  you  would  be  if  it  were  allowable,"  said  the 
girl,  nodding  her  head  shrewdly.  "  Fortunately  it  isn't." 

"  Make  the  experiment — allow  it ;  I  might  do  better  than 
you  think." 

"  There  is  room  for  improvement,  certainly,"  she  answered, 
laughing.  They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  orange  aisle,  she 
passed  under  the  green  archway  (which  proved  to  be  quite 
high  enough),  and  went  out  into  the  sunshine  beyond,  calling 
"Carlos  Mateo?  Carlos,  dear?"  Then,  in  Spanish,  "  Angel 
of  my  heart,  come  to  me." 

The  old  garden  had  long  been  left  untended.  It  was 
large,  but  seemed  larger  even  than  it  was,  because  it  had  wan 
dered  out  into  the  forest,  and  wild  growths  from  there  had 
come  back  with  it;  these  had  jumped  boldly  across  the  once 
well-guarded  boundaries  and  overrun  the  cultivated  verdure 
with  their  lawless  green  ;  oleanders  were  lost  in  thickets,  fig- 
trees,  pomegranates,  and  guavas  were  bound  together  in  a 
tangle  of  vines;  flower  beds  had  become  miniature  jungles 
in  which  the  descendants  of  the  high-born  blossoms  that  had 
once  held  sway  there  had  forgotten  their  manners  in  the 
crowd  of  lusty  plebeian  plants  that  jostled  against  them. 
Even  the  saw-palmetto  had  pushed  his  way  in  from  the  bar 
rens,  and  now  clogged  the  paths  with  his  rough  red  legs, 
holding  up  his  stiff  fans  in  the  very  faces  of  the  lilies,  who, 
being  southern  lilies/longed  for  the  sun.  A  few  paths  had 
been^kept  open,  however,  round  the  great  rose-tree,  the  pride 
of  the  place,  a  patriarch  fifteen  feet  high,  its  branches  cov 
ered  with  beautiful  tea-roses,  whose  petals  of  soft  creamy  hue 
were  touched  at  the  edges  with  an  exquisite  pink.  A  little 
space  of  garden  beds  in  comparative  order  encircled  this  tree; 
here,  toofon  the  right,  opened  out  the  sweet-orange  grove. 


46  EAST  ANGELS. 

This  grove  was  by  no  means  in  good  condition,  many  of 
its  trees  were  ancient,  some  were  dead ;  still,  work  had  been 
done  there,  and  the  attempt,  such  as  it  was,  had  been  persist 
ed  in,  though  never  effectually.  The  persistence  had  been 
due  to  the  will  of  Mrs.  Thorne,  the  ineffectualness  to  the  will 
of  old  Pablo.  His  mistress,  by  a  system  of  serene  determi 
nation,  had  been  able  to  triumph,  to  a  certain  extent,  over 
the  ancient  and  well-organized  contrariness  of  this  old  man — 
a  dumb  opposition  whose  existence  she  never  in  the  least 
recognized,  though  its  force  she  well  knew.  Each  season 
the  obstinate  old  servant  began  by  disapproving  regularly  of 
everything  she  ordered;  next,  he  carried  out  her  orders  slow 
ly,  and  with  as  many  delays  as  possible — this  not  so  much 
from  any  reasonable  objection  to  her  ideas  as  from  his  gen 
eral  principles  of  resistance,  founded  upon  family  pride.  For 
Pablo,  who  was  Raquel's  husband — a  bent  little  negro  of  ad' 
vanced  age — could  never  forget  that  "  Marse  Edgar's  wife  " 
was  but  an  interloper  after  all,  an  importation  from  New 
England,  and  not  "  ob  de  fambly  c'nection,"  not  even  of 
southern  birth.  The  memory  of  majestic  "  Old  Madam," 
Edgar  Thome's  Spanish  aunt,  kept  her  "Young  Miss"  still 
in  the  estimation  of  the  two  old  slaves,  though  "  Ole  Miss  " 
had  now  been  for  a  number  of  years  safely  in  her  coquina 
tomb — "let  us  hope  enjoying  rest  and  peace — as  that  poor 
little  Mistress  Thorne  will  now  enjoy  them  too,  at  last"  as 
an  old  friend  of  the  family,  Mrs.  Betty  Carew,  had  remarked 
with  much  feeling,  though  some  ambiguity  of  phrase  (the 
latter  quite  unintentional),  the  day  after  the  funeral. 

"  Young  Miss  'lows  dese  yere's  yor^M/-trees,"  Pablo  said 
to  Raquel,  with  a  fine  scorn,  as  he  dug  objectingly  round 
their  roots.  "  An'  'lowing  allowing  it,  Raquel,  she  orders 
accordin' !" 

But  the  southern  trees  had  lived,  and  had  even,  some  of 
them,  thrived  a  little  under  the  unwonted  northern  methods 
applied  to  them ;  Mrs.  Thorne,  therefore,  was  able  to  rise 
above  old  Pablo's  disapprovals  —  a  feat,  indeed,  which  she 
had  been  obliged  to  perform  almost  daily,  and  with  regard 
to  many  other  things  than  oranges,  ever  since  her  first  ar 
rival  at  East  Angels,  seventeen  years  before. 

This  hidy  now  seated  herself  on  a  bench  under  the  rose- 


EAST   ANGELS.  47 

tree.  Slic  had  tied  on,  over  her  neat  little  widow's  cap,  the 
broad-brimmed  palmetto  hat  which  she  usually  wore  in  the 
garden ;  this  hat  had  fallen  slightly  back,  and  now  its  broad 
yellow  brim,  standing  out  in  a  circle  round  her  small  face, 
looked  not  unlike  the  dull  nimbus  with  which  the  heads  of 
the  stiff,  sweet  little  angels  in  the  early  Italian  paintings  are 
weighted  down.  The  clergyman,  Mr.  Moore,  stood  beside  her. 

The  Rev.  Middleton  Moore,  rector  of  St.  Philip  and  St. 
James's,  Gracias-a-Dios,  was  a  tall  gentleman,  with  narrow, 
slightly  stooping  shoulders,  long  thin  hands,  a  long  smooth 
face,  and  thin  dry  brown  hair  which  always  looked  long 
(though  it  was  not),  because  it  grew  from  the  top  of  his  head 
down  to  his  cars  in  straight  flat  smoothness,  the  ends  being 
there  cut  across  horizontally.  His  features  were  delicate 
ly  moulded.  His  long  feet  were  slender  and  well -shaped. 
There  was  a  charming  expression  of  purity  and  goodness  in 
his  small,  mild  blue  eyes.  He  was  attired  in  clerical  black, 
all  save  his  hat,  which  was  brown — a  low-crowned,  brown 
straw  hat  adorned  with  a  brown  ribbon.  Mrs.  Penelope 
Moore,  his  wife,  profound  as  was  her  appreciation  of  the  dig 
nity  of  his  position  as  rector  of  the  parish,  could  yet  never 
quite  resist  the  temptation  of  getting  for  him,  now  and  then, 
a  straw  hat,  and  a  straw  hat,  too,  which  was  not  black ;  to 
her  sense  a  straw  hat  was  youth,  and  to  her  sense  the  rector 
was  young.  It  was  in  a  straw  hat  that  she  had  first  beheld 
and  admired  him  as  the  handsomest,  as  well  as  the  most  per 
fect,  of  men ;  and  so  in  a  straw  hat  she  still  occasionally  sent 
him  forth,  gazing  at" the  back  view  of  it  and  him,  from  the 
rickety  windows  of  her  Gothic  rectory,  with  much  satisfac 
tion,  as  he  went  down  the  path  towards  the  gate  on  his  way 
to  some  of  the  gentle  Gracias  entertainments.  For  of  course 
he  wore  it  only  on  such  light,  unofficial  occasions. 

Dr.  Kirby,  meanwhile,  was  making  the  circuit  of  the  or 
ange  grove.  lie  stopped  and  peered  up  sidewise  into  each 
tree,  his  head  now  on  one  shoulder,  now  on  the  other;  then 
he  came  back,  his  hands  and  pockets  filled  with  oranges, 
which  he  offered  to  all ;  seating  himself  on  the  low  curb  of 
an  old  well,  he  began  to  peel  one  with  the  little  silver  knife 
which  he  kept  for  the  purpose,  doing  it  so  deftly  that  not  a 
drop  of  the  juice  escaped,  and  looking  on  calmly  meanwhile 


48  EAST  ANGELS: 

as  the  other  bird,  Carlos  Mateo,  went  through  his  dance  for1 
the  entertainment  of  the  assembled  company.  Carlos  Mateo 
was  a  tall  gray  crane  of  aged  and  severe  aspect ;  at  Garda's 
call  he  had  come  forward  with  long,  dignified  steps  and 
stalked  twice  round  the  little  open  space  before  the  rose-tree, 
following  her  with  grave  exactitude  as  she  walked  before 
him.  She  then  called  him  to  a  path  bordered  with  low 
bushes,  and  here,  after  a  moment,  the  company  beheld  him 
jumping  slowly  up  and  down,  aiding  himself  with  his  wings, 
sometimes  rising  several  feet  above  the  ground,  and  some 
times  only  hopping  on  his  long  thin  legs ;  he  advanced  in 
this  manner  down  the  path  to  its  end,  and  then  back  again, 
Garda  walking  in  front,  and  raising  her  hand  as  he  rose 
and  fell,  as  though  beating  time.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  comical  than  the  solemnity  of  the  old  fellow  as  he 
went  through  these  antics ;  it  was  as  if  a  gray-bearded  patri 
arch  should  suddenly  attempt  a  hornpipe. 

His  performance  ended,  he  followed  his  mistress  back  to 
the  company,  to  receive  their  congratulations. 

"What  can  we  give  him?"  said  Winthrop.  "  What  does 
he  like  ?" 

"  He  will  not  take  anything  except  from  me,"  answered 
Garda;  she  gathered  a  rose,  and  stood  holding  it  by  the 
stem  while  Carlos  Mateo  pecked  gravely  at  the  petals.  The 
sun  was  sinking,  his  horizontal  rays  shone  across  her  bright 
hair;  she  had  taken  off  her  hat,  which  was  hanging  by  its 
ribbon  from  her  arm ;  Winthrop  looked  at  her,  at  the  rose- 
laden  branches  above  her  head,  at  the  odd  figure  of  the  crane 
by  her  side,  at  the  background  of  the  wild  old  garden  be 
hind  her.  lie  was  thinking  that  he  would  give  a  good  deal 
for  a  picture  of  the  scene. 

But  while  he  was  thinking  it,  Manuel  had  spoken  it. 
"  Miss  Garda,  I  would  give  a  year  out  of  my  life  for  a  pict 
ure  of  you  as  you  are  at  this  moment!"  he  said,  ardently. 
Winthrop  turned  away. 

He  went  to  look  at  some  camellias,  whose  glossy  leaves 
formed  a  thicket  at  a  little  distance ;  on  the  other  side  of 
this  thicket  he  discovered  a  crape-myrtle  avenue,  the  delicate 
trees  so  choked  and  hustled  by  the  ruder  foliage  which  had 
grown  up  about  them  that  they  stood  like  captives  in  the 


EAST  ANGELS.  49 

midst  of  a  rabble,  broken  -  hearted  and  dumb ;  with  some 
pushing  he  made  his  way  within,  and  followed  the  lost  path. 
It  brought  him  to  a  mound  of  tangled  shrubbery  which  rose 
like  a  small  hill  at  this  end  of  the  garden,  decked  here  and 
there,  in  what  seemed  inaccessible  places,  with  brilliant  flow 
ers.  But  the  places  had  not  been  inaccessible  to  Torres, 
Winthrop  met  him  returning  from  the  thorny  conflict  with 
a  magnificent  stalk  of  blossoms  which  he  had  captured 
there,  and  was  now  bringing  back  in  triumph  ;  it  was  a  long 
wand  of  gorgeous  spurred  bells,  each  two  inches  in  length, 
crimson  without,  cream-color  within,  the  lip  of  the  flaring 
lower  petal  lined  with  purple,  and  spotted  with  gold.  Torres 
carried  his  prize  to  Garda,  and  offered  it  in  silence.  She 
thanked  him  prettily  in  Spanish,  and  he  stood  beside  her, 
his  dark  face  in  a  dull  glow  from  pleasure. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  poisonous,"  murmured  Manuel,  taking  good 
care,  however,  to  murmur  in  English. 

"  Oh,  my  dearest  child !  pray  put  it  down,"  said  Mrs. 
Thome,  anxiously. 

"  It  is  quite  harmless,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  I  know  the 
family  to  which  it  belongs.  It  is  not  indigenous  here  ;  prob 
ably  the  original  shrub  was  planted  in  the  garden  many  years 
ago,  and  has  run  wild." 

Garda  took  the  stalk  in  her  right  hand,  extended  her  left 
rigidly,  and,  stiffening  her  light  figure  in  a  wooden  attitude, 
looked  meekly  upward. 

"Bravo !  bravo !"  said  the  Doctor  from  his  well-curb,  laugh 
ing,  and  beginning  on  a  second  orange. 

She  stood  thus  for  a  few  instants  only,  But  it  was  very 
well  done — an  exact  copy  of  a  dark,  grim  old  picture  in  the 
little  Spanish  cathedral  of  Gracias,  a  St.  Catherine  with  a 
stalk  of  lilies  in  her  hand. 

Winthrop,  who  had  returned,  was  standing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  open  space.  Apparently  he  had  not  noticed 
this  little  pantomime.  Garda  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  left  her  place,  went  across,  and  gravely  decorated 
him  with  her  stalk  of  blossoms,  the  large  stem  going  through 
three  of  the  button-holes  of  his  coat  before  it  could  hold  it 
self  firmly  ;  the  brilliant  flowers  extended  diagonally  across 
his  breast,  past  his  chin,  and  above  one  ear. 


50  EAST  ANGELS. 

"Your  hat  will  break  the  top  buds,"  said  Garda,  survey 
ing  her  handiwork.  "  Please  take  it  off." 

He  obeyed.  "For  what  sacrifice  am  I  thus  adorned?"  he 
asked. 

"  It's  no  sacrifice,"  answered  Garda,  "  it's  a  rebellion — a  re 
bellion  against  your  constant  objections  to  everything-  in  the 
world !" 

"  But  I  haven't  opened  my  lips." 

"That  is  the  very  thing;  you  object  silently — which  is 
much  worse.  I'm  not  accustomed  to  people  who  object 
silently.  Everybody  here  talks;  why  don't  you  talk?" 

This  little  dialogue  went  on  apart,  the  others  could  not 
hear  it. 

"  I  do — when  you  give  me  an  opportunity,"  Winthrop 
answered. 

"  I'll  give  you  one  now,"  responded  Garda  ;  "  we'll  go  back 
to  the  house,  we'll  go  through  the  orange-walk  as  we  came, 
and  the  others  can  follow  as  they  came."  Without  waiting 
for  reply,  she  went  towards  the  garden  gate.  Winthrop 
followed  her ;  and  then  Carlos  Mateo,  stalking  across  the 
open  space,  followed  Wrinthrop.  lie  followed  him  so  close 
ly  that  Winthrop  declared  he  could  feel  his  beak  on  his 
back.  When  they  reached  the  house  they  paused ;  Carlos 
then  took  up  his  station  a  little  apart,  and  stood  on  one  leg 
to  rest  himself,  watching  AVinthrop  meanwhile  with  a  sus 
picious  eye. 

Mrs.  Thome  was  crossing  the  level  with  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Moore.  Following  them,  at  a  little  distance,  came  Dr.  Kirby, 
with  his  hands  behind  him.  Manuel  and  Torres,  forced  to 
be  companions  a  second  time,  formed  the  rear-guard  of  the 
returning  procession.  But  as  it  approached  the  house,  Man 
uel,  raising  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Thorne,  turned  away  ;  he  went 
down  the  live-oak  avenue  to  the  river  landing,  where  his  skiff 
was  waiting.  Manuel  had  his  ideas,  he  did  not  care  to  be 
one  of  five.  Torres,  who  also  had  his  ideas,  and  many  more 
of  them  than  Manuel  had,  was  not  troubled  by  considera 
tions  of  this  sort;  in  his  mind  a  Torres  was  never  one  of 
five,  or  one  of  anything,  but  always  a  Torres,  and  alone. 
Left  to  himself,  he  now  took  longer  steps,  passed  the  others, 
and  came  first  to  the  doorway  where  Garda  was  standing:. 


EAST  ANGELS.  51 

"Why  do  you  always  look  so  serious,  Mr.  Torres?"  she 
said,  in  Spanish,  as  he  came  up. 

"  It  is  of  small  consequence  how  I  look,  while  the  senorita 
herself  remains  so  beautiful,"  answered  the  young-  man,  bow 
ing  ceremoniously. 

"  Isn't  that  pretty  ?"  said  Garda  to  Winthrop. 

"  Immensely  so,"  replied  that  decorated  personage. 

"  But  he  does  not  look  half  so  serious  as  you  look  comical 
— with  all  those  brilliant  flowers  by  the  side  of  your  immov 
able  face,"  she  went  on,  breaking  into  a  laugh. 

"  It  is  of  small  consequence  how  I  look,  seeing  that  the 
senorita  herself  placed  them  where  they  are,"  answered  Win 
throp,  in  tolerable  if  rather  labored  Spanish,  turning  with  a 
half-smile  to  Torres  as  he  borrowed  his  phrase. 

"You  did  not  like  it?  You  thought  it  childish?"  said 
Garda.  She  drew  the  stalk  quickly  from  its  place.  She 
was  now  speaking  English,  and  Torres  watched  to  see  the 
fate  of  his  gift;  she  had  taken  the  flowers  with  the  inten 
tion  of  throwing  them  away,  but  noticing  that  the  Cuban's 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  them,  she  slipped  the  end  of  the  stem 
under  her  belt,  letting  the  long  brilliant  spray  hang  down 
over  her  dark  skirt. 

"  I  am  now  more  honored  than  ever,"  said  Winthrop. 

"  But  it  is  Mr.  Torres  whom  I  am  honoring  this  time," 
answered  the  girl. 

Torres,  hearing  his  name  in  her  English  sentence,  drew 
the  heels  of  his  polished  boots  together  with  a  little  click, 
and  made  another  low  bow. 

The  rest  of  the  party  now  came  up,  and  soon  after,  the 
visitors  took  leave;  Winthrop  rode  back  across  the  pine- 
barrens  to  Gracias.  Dr.  Kirby  bore  him  company  on  his 
stout  black  horse  Osccola,  glad  indeed  to  be  there  and  off  his 
own  feet;  on  the  way  he  related  a  large  portion  of  that  his 
tory  of  the  Spaniards  in  Florida  which  Garda,  their  descend 
ant,  had  interrupted  at  the  mill. 

As  they  left  East  Angels,  and  rode  out  on  the  barren, 
this  descendant  was  being  addressed  impressively  by  her 
mother.  "That,  Garda,  is  my  idea  of  a  cultivated  gentle 
man  :  to  have  had  such  wide  opportunities,  and  to  have  im 
proved  them  ;  to  be  so  agreeable,  and  yet  so  kind  ;  so  quiet, 


52  EAST  ANGELS. 

and  yet  so  evidently  a  man  of  distinction,  of  mark — it's  a 
rare  combination." 

"  Very,"  replied  Garda,  giving  the  crane  her  gloves  to  car 
ry  in  his  beak. 

They  were  still  standing  in  the  lower  doorway;  Mrs. 
Thorne  surveyed  her  daughter  for  a  moment,  one  of  her 
states  of  uncertainty  seemed  to  have  seized  her.  "  I  hope 
you  appreciate  that  Mr.  Winthrop  is  not  another  Manuel  or 
Torres,"  she  said  at  last,  in  her  most  amiable  tone. 

"  Perfectly,  mamma ;  I  could  never  make  such  a  mistake 
as  that.  Mr.  Winthrop  inspires  respect." 

"  He  does — he  does,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  with  conviction. 

"  I  respect  him  already  as  a  father,"  continued  Garda. 
"  Manuel  and  Ernesto  also  respect  him  as  a  father.  Come, 
Carlos,  my  angel,  let  us  go  down  to  the  landing,  and  see  if 
we  can  call  Manuel  back." 


CHAPTER  III. 

GRACIAS-A-DIOS  was  a  little  town  lying  half  asleep  on  the 
southern  coast  of  the  United  States,  under  a  sky  of  almost 
changeless  blue. 

Of  almost  changeless  blue.  Americans  have  long  been, 
in  a  literary  way,  the  vicarious  victims,  to  a  certain  extent, 
of  the  climate  of  the  British  Isles.  The  low  tones  of  the 
atmosphere  of  those  islands,  the  shifting  veils  of  fog  and 
rain  rising  and  falling  over  them,  the  soft  gray  light  filtered 
through  mist  and  cloud  —  all  these  have  caused  the  blue 
skies  and  endless  sunshine  of  Italy  to  seem  divinely  fair  to 
visitors  from  English  shores;  and  as  among  these  visitors 
have  come  the  poets  and  the  romance  writers,  this  fairness, 
embalmed  in  prose  and  verse,  has  taken  its  place  in  litera 
ture,  has  become  classic.  The  imaginative  New  World  stu 
dent,  eager  to  learn,  passionately  desirous  to  appreciate,  has 
read  these  pages  reverently ;  he  knows  them  by  heart.  And 
when  at  last  the  longed-for  day  comes  when  he  too  can 
make  his  pilgrimage  to  these  scenes  of  legend  and  story,  so 
dominated  is  he,  for  the  most  part,  by  the  spell  of  tradition 


EAST  ANGELS.  53 

that  ho  docs  not  even  perceive  that  these  long-chanted  heav 
ens  arc  no  bluer  than  his  own  ;  or  if  by  chance  his  eye,  ac 
curate  in  spite  of  himself,  notes  such  a  possibility,  he  puts  it 
from  him  purposely,  preferring  the  blueness  which  is  his 
toric.  The  heavens  lying  over  Venice  and  her  palaces  are, 
must  be,  softer  than  those  which  expand  distantly  over  miles 
of  prairie  and  forest ;  the  hue  of  the  sky  which  bends  over 
Rome  is,  must  be,  of  a  deeper,  richer  tint  than  any  which  a 
Rew  World  has  attained.  But  generally  this  preference  of 
the  imaginative  American  is  not  a  choice  so  much  as  an  un 
conscious  faith  which  he  has  cherished  from  childhood,  and 
from  which  he  would  hardly  know  how  to  dissent;  he  is 
gazing  at  these  foreign  skies  through  a  long,  enchanting 
vista  of  history,  poetry,  and  song ;  he  simply  does  not  re 
member  his  own  sky  at  all. 

Only  recently  has  he  begun  to  remember  it,  only  recently 
has  he  begun  to  discover  that,  in  the  matter  of  blue  at  least, 
he  has  been  gazing  through  glasses  adjusted  to  the  scale  of 
English  atmosphere  and  English  comparisons,  and  that,  di 
vested  of  these  aids  to  vision,  he  can  find  above  his  own 
head  and  in  his  own  country  an  azure  as  deep  as  any  that 
the  Old  World  can  show. 

When  this  has  been  discovered  it  remains  but  blue  sky. 
The  other  treasure  of  those  old  lands  beyond  the  sea — their 
ruins,  their  art,  their  ancient  story — these  he  has  not  and 
can  never  have,  and  these  he  loves  with  that  deep  American 
worship  which  must  seem  to  those  old  gods  like  the  arrival 
of  Magi  from  afar,  men  of  distant  birth,  sometimes  of  man 
ners  strange,  but  bringing  costly  gifts  and  bowing  the  knee 
with  reverence  where  the  dwellers  in  the  temple  itself  have 
grown  cold. 

Compared  with  those  of  the  British  Isles,  all  the  skies  of 
the  United  States  are  blue.  In  the  North,  this  blue  is  clear, 
strong,  bright ;  in  the  South,  a  softness  mingles  with  the 
brilliancy,  and  tempers  it  to  a  beauty  which  is  not  surpassed. 
The  sky  over  the  cotton  lands  of  South  Carolina  is  as  soft 
as  that"  of  Tuscany ;  the  blue  above  the  silver  beaches  of 
Florida  melts  as  languorously  as  that  above  Capri's  enchant 
ed  shore.  Gracias-a-Dios  had  this  blue  sky.  Slumberous 
little  coast  hamlet  as  it  was,  it  had  also  its  characteristics. 


54  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Gracias  a  Dios !"  Spanish  sailors  had  said,  three  hun 
dred  years  before,  when,  after  a  great  storm,  despairing  and 
exhausted,  they  discovered  this  little  harbor  on  the  low,  dan 
gerous  coast,  and  were  able  to  enter  it — "  Gracias  a  Dios  !" 
"  Thanks  to  God  !"  In  the  present  day  the  name  had  be 
come  a  sort  of  shibboleth.  To  say  Gracias  a  Dios  in  full, 
with  the  correct  Spanish  pronunciation,  showed  that  one  was 
of  the  old  Spanish  blood,  a  descendant  of  those  families  who 
dated  from  the  glorious  times  when  his  Most  Catholic  and 
Imperial  Majesty,  King  of  Spain,  Defender  of  the  Church, 
always  Victorious,  always  Invincible,  had  held  sway  on  this 
far  shore.  To  say  Gracias  without  the  "  4  Dios,"  but  still 
with  more  or  less  imitation  of  the  Spanish  accent,  proved 
that  one  belonged  among  the  older  residents  of  the  next  de 
gree  of  importance,  that  is,  that  one's  grandfather  or  great 
grandfather  had  been  among  those  English  colonists  who 
had  come  out  to  Florida  during  the  British  occupation ;  or 
else  that  he  had  been  one  of  the  planters  from  Georgia  and 
the  Carolinas  who  had  moved  to  the  province  during  the 
same  period.  This  last  pronunciation  was  also  adopted  by 
those  among  the  later-coming  residents  who  had  an  interest 
in  history,  or  who  loved  for  their  own  sakes  the  melody  of 
the  devout  old  names  given  by  the  first  explorers — names 
now  so  rapidly  disappearing  from  bay  and  harbor,  reef  and 
key.  But  these  three  classes  were  no  longer  all,  there  was 
another  and  more  recent  one,  small  and  unimportant  as  yet, 
but  destined  to  grow.  This  new  class  counted  within  its 
ranks  at  present  the  captains  and  crews  of  the  northern 
schooners  that  were  beginning  to  come  into  that  port  for 
lumber;  the  agents  of  land -companies  looking  after  titles 
and  the  old  Spanish  grants ;  speculators  with  plans  in  their 
pockets  for  railways,  with  plans  in  their  pockets  for  canals, 
with  plans  in  their  pockets  (and  sometimes  very  little  else) 
for  draining  the  swamps  and  dredging  the  Everglades,  many 
of  the  schemes  dependent  upon  aid  from  Congress,  and  mys 
teriously  connected  with  the  new  negro  vote.  In  addition 
there  were  the  first  projectors  of  health  resorts,  the  first 
northern  buyers  of  orange  groves :  in  short,  the  pioneers  of 
that  busy,  practical  American  majority  which  has  no  time 
for  derivations,  and  does  not  care  for  history,  and  which 


EAST  ANGELS.  55 

turns  its  imagination  (for  it  has  imagination)  towards  objects 
more  veracious  than  the  pious  old  titles  bestowed  by  an  age 
and  race  that  murdered,  and  tortured,  and  reddened  these 
fair  waters  with  blood,  for  sweet  religion's  sake.  This  new 
class  called  the  place  Grashus — which  was  a  horror  to  all 
the  other  inhabitants. 

The  descendants  of  the  Spaniards,  of  the  English  colo 
nists,  of  the  Georgia  and  Carolina  planters — families  much 
thinned  out  now  in  numbers  and  estate,  wearing  for  the 
most  part  old  clothes,  but  old  prides  as  well — lived  on  in 
their  old  houses  in  Gracias  and  its  neighborhood,  giving 
rather  more  importance  perhaps  to  the  past  than  to  the  pres 
ent,  but  excellent  people,  kind  neighbors,  generous  and  de 
voted  friends.  They  were  also  good  Christians  ;  on  Sundays 
they  all  attended  service  in  one  or  the  other  of  the  two 
churches  of  Gracias,  the  Roman  Catholic  cathedral  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Angels,  and  the  Episcopal  church  of  St.  Philip 
and  St.  James'.  These  two  houses  of  worship  stood  side  by 
side  on  the  plaza,  only  an  old  garden  between  them.  St. 
Philip  and  St.  James'  had  a  bell ;  but  its  Spanish  neighbor 
had  four,  and  not  only  that,  but  a  habit  of  ringing  all  four 
together,  in  a  sort  of  quickstep,  at  noon  on  Sundays,  so  that 
the  Episcopal  rector,  in  that  land  of  open  windows,  was 
obliged  either  to  raise  his  voice  to  an  unseemly  pitch,  or  else 
to  preach  for  some  minutes  in  dumb  -  show,  which  latter 
course  he  generally  adopted  as  the  more  decorous,  mildly 
going  back  and  giving  the  lost  sentences  a  second  time,  as 
though  they  had  not  been  spoken,  when  the  clamor  had 
ceased.  This,  however,  was  the  only  warfare  between  the 
two  churches.  And  it  might  have  been  intended,  too,  merely 
as  a  friendly  hint  from  the  Angels  to  the  Saints  that  the 
Litter's  sermons  were  too  long.  The  Episcopal  rector,  the 
Rev.  Middleton  Moore,  had  in  truth  ideas  somewhat  behind 
his  times :  lie  had  not  yet  learned  that  fifteen  or  at  most 
twenty  minutes  should  include  the  utmost  length  of  his 
weekly  persuasions  to  virtue.  It  had  never  occurred  to  the 
mind  of  this  old-fashioned  gentleman  that  congregations  are 
now  so  highly  improved,  so  cultivated  and  intellectual,  that 
they  require  but  a  few  moments  of  dispassionate  reminder 
from  the  pulpit  once  a  week,  that  on  the  whole  it  is  better 


56  EAST  ANGELS. 

to  be  moral,  and,  likewise,  that  any  assumption  of  the  func 
tions  of  a  teacher  on  the  part  of  a  clergyman  is  now  quite 
obsolete  and  even  laughable — these  modern  axioms  Middle- 
ton  Moore  had  not  yet  learned ;  the  mistaken  man  went  on 
hopefully  exhorting  for  a  full  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 
And  as  his  congregation  were  as  old-fashioned  as  himself, 
no  objection  had  as  yet  been  made  to  this  course,  the  simple 
people  listening  with  respect  to  all  he  had  to  say,  not  only 
for  what  it  was  in  itself,  but  for  what  he  was  in  himself — a 
man  without  spot,  one  who,  in  an  earlier  age,  would  have 
gone  through  martyrdom  with  the  same  pure,  gentle  firm 
ness  with  which  he  now  addressed  them  from  a  pulpit  of 
peace.  It  was  in  this  little  church  of  St.  Philip  and  St. 
James'  that  Evert  Winthrop  had  first  beheld  Garda  Thome. 
'"The  next  day  he  presented  a  letter  of  introduction  which 
his  aunt,  Mrs.  Rutherford,  had  given  him  before  he  left  New 
York ;  the  letter  bore  the  address,  "  Mrs.  Carew."  Winthrop 
had  not  welcomed  this  document,  he  disliked  the  demand  for 
attention  which  epistles  usually  convey.  How  much  influ 
ence  the  beautiful  face  seen  in  church  had  upon  its  presenta 
tion  when  he  finally  made  it,  how  long,  without  that  acci 
dent,  the  ceremony  might  have  been  delayed,  it  would  be 
difficult,  perhaps,  to  accurately  state.  He  himself  would  have 
said  that  the  beautiful  face  had  hastened  it  somewhat ;  but 
that  in  time  he  should  have  obeyed  his  aunt's  wish  in  any 
case,  as  he  always  did.  For  Winthrop  was  a  good  nephew, 
his  aunt  had  given  him  the  only  mother's  love  his  childhood 
had  known. 

Mrs.  Carcw,  who  as  Betty  Gwinnet  had  been  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford's  room-mate  at  a  New  York  school  forty-four  years  be 
fore,  lived  in  one  of  the  large,  old,  rather  dilapidated  houses 
of  Gracias ;  she  was  a  widow,  portly,  good-natured,  reminis 
cent,  and  delighted  to  see  the  nephew  of  her  "  dearest  Ka- 
trina  Beekman."  It  was  not  until  his  second  visit  that  this 
nephew  broached  the  subject  of  the  face  seen  in  church,  and 
even  then  he  presented  it  so  slightly,  with  its  narrow  edge 
towards  her,  as  it  were,  that  the  good  lady  never  had  a  sus 
picion  that  it  was  more  than  a  chance  allusion  on  his  part, 
and  indeed  always  thereafter  took  to  herself  the  credit  of 
having  been  the  first  to  direct  a  cultivated  northern  atten- 


EAST  ANGELS.  57 

tion  to  this  beautiful  young  creature,  who  was  being  left, 
"like  the  poet's  flower,  you  know,  to  blush  unseen  and  waste 
her  sweetness  on  the  desert  air,  though  of  course  you  under 
stand  that  I  am  not  literal  of  course,  for  fortunately  there 
are  no  deserts  in  Florida,  unless,  indeed,  you  include  the 
Everglades,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  can,  for  certainly  the 
essence  of  a  desert  is,  and  always  has  been,  dryness  of  course, 
dry  ness  to  a  degree,  and  the  Everglades  are  all  under  water, 
so  that  there  isn't  a  dry  spot  anywhere  for  even  so  much  as 
the  sole  of  your  foot,  any  more  than  there  was  for  Noah's 
weary  dove,  you  know,  and  it's  water,  water,  everywhere,  and 
not  a  drop  to  drink,  that  is,  if  you  should  wish  to  drink  it, 
which  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  wouldn't,  for  it's  said  to  be 
most  unhealthy,  and  even  the  Ancient  Mariner  himself  couldn't 
have  stood  it  long." 

Mrs.  Carew  was  fertile  in  quotations,  rich  in  simile ;  and 
if  both  were  rather  wanting  in  novelty,  there  was  at  least  an 
element  of  unexpectedness  in  her  manner  of  connecting  them 
which  amused  her  present  visitor  and  kept  him  listening. 
Not  that  Winthrop  was  ever  inattentive.  On  the  contrary, 
he  had  listening  powers  of  admirable  range  and  calm.  He 
was  capable  of  participating  in  any  amount  of  conversation 
upon  the  weather,  he  could  accept  with  passiveness  those  ad 
visers  who  are  always  telling  their  friends  what  they  "  ought " 
to  do,  he  could  listen  imperturbably  to  little  details  from  the 
people  who  always  will  tell  little  details,  he  could  bear  with 
out  impatience  even  the  narration  of  dreams;  he  was  able 
to  continue  an  acquaintance  unmoved  with  those  excellent 
persons  who,  when  they  have  said  a  good  thing,  immediately 
go  back  and  tell  it  over  again ;  in  short,  he  betrayed  no  irri 
tation  in  the  presence  of  great  Commonplace.  The  com 
monplace  people,  therefore,  all  liked  him,  he  had  not  an  ene 
my  among  them.  And  this  was  the  more  amusing,  as,  in 
reality,  he  detested  them. 

His  friends,  those  who  knew  him  best,  told  him  that  he 
went  about  most  of  the  time  in  a  mask.  "  All  the  world's 
a  stage,"  he  answered ;  "  the  only  point  is  that  the  mask 
should  be  an  agreeable  one.  Why  should  I  be  obliged  to 
show  my  true  complexion  to  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  when 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  so  much  prefer  the  one  I  have  as- 


58  EAST  ANGELS. 

sumcd?  It's  good  practice  for  rnc — the  mask- wearing — 
practice  in  self-control ;  and  besides,  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry 
arc  right,  the  borrowed  complexion  is  the  better  one ;  per 
haps  I  may  be  able,  in  time,  to  really  acquire  one  like  it." 

To  find  himself  listening,  therefore,  without  his  mask,  lis 
tening  for  the  simple  entertainment  of  it,  was  always  an 
agreeable  variety  to  this  gentleman,  who  kept  at  least  his 
outward  attention  in  such  strict  control ;  and  the  first  time 
he  heard  Mrs.  Betty  Carew  hold  forth,  he  had  a  taste  of  it. 

"  Yes,  that  was  Mistress  Thome  and  Garda,  I  reckon ;  on 
second  thoughts,  I  am  sure  of  it;  for  they  always  come  up 
from  East  Angels  on  Sunday  mornings  to  service,  with  old 
Pablo  to  row,  as  Mistress  Thome  has  succeeded  in  getting 
as  far  as  the  Episcopal  church,  though  Our  Lady  of  the 
Angels  was  too  much  for  her,  which  was  quite  as  well,  how 
ever,  because,  of  course,  all  the  Thornes,  being  English,  were 
Church  people  of  course  in  the  old  country,  though  poor 
Eddie,  having  been  twice  diluted,  as  one  may  say,  owing  to 
his  mother  and  grandmother  having  been  Spanish  and  Ro- 
man  Catholic,  was  not  quite  so  strong  in  the  real  Episcopal 
doctrines  as  he  might  have  been,  which  was  a  pity,  of  course, 
but  could  hardly,  under  the  circumstances,  have  been  pre 
vented  so  far  as  I  can  see,  for  one  swallow  doesn't  make  a 
summer,  I  reckon,  any  more  than  one  parent  makes  a  Prot 
estant,  especially  when  the  other's  a  Daero — with  the  Old 
Madam  roaring  on  the  borders,  ready  to  raise  Ned  on  the 
slightest  provocation,  to  come  down  like  wolf  on  the  fold, 
you  know — or  was  it  the  Assyrian  ?  Now  at  East  Angels — 
perhaps  you  are  wondering  at  the  name?  Well,  the  cathe 
dral,  to  begin  with,  is  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels,  and,  in  the 
old  days,  there  were  two  mission -stations  for  the  Indians 
south  of  here,  one  on  the  east  coast,  one  more  to  the  west, 
and  bearing  the  same  name.  These  chapels  are  gone;  but 
as  the  Duero  house  stood  near  one  of  them,  it  took  the 
name,  or  part  of  it,  and  has  been  called  East  Angels  ever 
since.  There  was  no  house  near  the  other  chapel — West 
Angels — and  some  say  the  very  site  is  lost,  though  others 
again  have  declared  that  the  old  bell  is  still  there,  lying  at 
the  foot  of  a  great  cypress — that  hunters  have  seen  it.  But 
I  haven't  much  faith  in  hunters,  have  you  ? — nor  in  fisher- 


EAST  ANGELS.  59 

men  cither,  for  that  matter.  Little  Mistress  Thornc  must 
know  a  great  deal  about  fish,  I  suppose  she  lived  on  cod  be 
fore  she  came  down  here ;  she  belongs  to  Puritan  stock,  they 
say,  and  there  were  good  people  among  them  of  course, 
though,  for  my  part,  I  have  always  had  a  horror  of  the  way 
they  treated  the  witches;  not  that  I  approve  of  witchcraft, 
which  is  of  course  as  wicked  as  possible,  and  even  the  witch 
of  Endor,  I  suppose,  could  hardly  be  defended  upon  moral 
grounds,  whatever  you  may  do  upon  historical — which  are 
so  much  the  fashion  nowadays,  though  I,  for  one,  can't  abide 
them — making  out  as  they  do  that  everything  is  a  falsehood, 
and  that  even  Pocahontas  was  not  a  respectable  person ;  I 
don't  know  what  they  will  attack  next,  I'm  sure ;  Pocahon 
tas  was  our  only  interesting  Indian.  Not  that  I  care  for 
Indians,  don't  fancy  that ;  the  Seminolcs  particularly ;  I'm 
always  so  glad  that  they've  gone  down  to  live  in  the  Ever 
glades,  half  under  water;  if  anything  could  take  down  their 
savageness,  I  should  think  it  would  be  that.  I  know  them 
very  well,  of  course — the  Thornes,"not  the  Seminoles — though 
perhaps  I  was  never  quite  so  intimate  with  them  as  Pamela 
Kirby  was  (she's  dead  now,  poor  soul !  so  sad  for  her !),  for 
Pamela  used  to  give  Garda  lessons;  she  moulded  her,  as  she 
called  it,  taught  her  to  shoot — of  course  I  mean  the  young 
idea,  and  not  guns.  In  fact,  they  have  all  had  a  hand  in  it 
— the  moulding  of  Garda ;  too  many,  I  think,  for  I  believe 
in  one  overruling  eye,  and  if  you  get  round  that,  there's  the 
good  old  proverb  that  remains  pretty  true,  after  all,  I  reckon, 
the  one  about  too  many  cooks,  though  in  this  case  the  broth 
has  been  saved  by  the  little  mother,  who  is  a  very  Napoleon 
in  petticoats,  and  never  forgets  a  thing;  she  actually  remem 
bers  a  thing  before  it  has  happened;  Methuselah  himself 
couldn't  do  more,  though,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  suppose  very 
little  had  happened  in  the  world  before  his  day — excepting 
trilobites,  that  we  used  to  read  about  in  school.  And  Mistress 
Thorne  knows  all  about  them,  you  may  be  sure,  just  as  well 
as  Methuselah  did ;  for  she  was  a  teacher,  to  begin  with,  a 
prim  little  New  England  school  •  marm  whom  poor  Eddie 
Thorne  met  by  accident  one  summer  when  he  went  north, 
and  fell  in  love  with,  as  I  have  always  supposed,  from  sheer 
force  of  contrast,  like  Beauty  and  the  Beast,  you  know— 


60  EAST   ANGELS. 

not  that  she  was  a  beast,  of  course,  though  poor  Eddie  was 
very  handsome,  but  still  I  remember  that  everybody  won 
dered,  because  it  had  been  thought  that  he  would  many  the 
sister  of  Madame  Giron,  who  had  hair  that  came  down  to 
her  feet.  However,  I  ought  to  say  that  poor  little  Mistress 
Thorne  has  certainly  done  her  very  best  to  acquire  our  south 
ern  ways ;  she  has  actually  tried  to  make  herself  over,  root, 
stem,  and  branch,  from  her  original  New  England  sharpness 
to  our  own  softer  temperament,  though  I  always  feel  sure, 
at  the  same  moment,  that,  in  the  core  of  the  rock,  the  old 
sap  burns  still — like  the  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death,  you 
know ;  not  that  I  mean  that  exactly  (though  she  is  thin), 
but  simply  that  the  leopard  cannot  change  his  spots,  nor  the 
zebra  his  stripes,  nor,"  added  the  good  lady  —  altering  her 
tone  to  solemnity  as  she  perceived  that  her  language  was 
becoming  Biblical — "  the  wild  cony  her  young.  Just  to  give 
you  an  idea  of  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Winthrop :  for  a  long  time 
after  she  first  came  to  Gracias  that  little  creature  used  regu 
larly  to  parse  twenty-four  pages  of  'Paradise  Lost'  every 
day,  as  a  sort  of  mental  tonic,  I  reckon,  against  what  she 
thought  the  enervating  tendencies  of  our  southern  life  here 
— like  quinine,  you  know ;  and  as  she  parsed  so  much,  she 
was  naturally  obliged  to  quote,  as  a  sort  of  safety-valve, 
which  was  very  pleasant  of  course  and  very  intellectual, 
though  I  never  care  much  for  quotations  myself,  they  are  so 
diffuse,  and  besides,  with  all  your  efforts,  you  cannot  make 
'  Paradise  Lost '  appropriate  to  all  the  little  daily  cares  of 
life  and  house-keeping,  which  no  true  woman,  I  think,  should 
be  above;  for  though  Eve  did  set  a  table  for  the  angel,  that 
was  merely  poetical  and  not  like  real  life  in  the  least,  for  she 
only  had  fruits,  and  no  dishes  probably  but  leaves,  that  you 
could  throw  away  afterwards,  which  was  very  different  from 
nice  china,  I  can  assure  you,  for  you  may  not  know,  not  be 
ing  a  house-keeper,  that  as  regards  china  nowadays — our  old 
blue  sets — our  servants  are  not  in  the  least  careful  not  to 
nick  ;  I  don't  enter  here  into  the  great  question  of  emancipa 
tion  for  the  slaves,  but — nick  they  will!  Mistress  Thome 
speaks  like  'Paradise  Lost'  to  this  day,  and,  what  is  more, 
she  has  taught  Garda  to  speak  in  the  same  way — just  like  a 
book;  only  Garda's  book  is  her  own,  you  never  know  what 


EAST  ANGELS.  61 

she  is  going  to  say  next,  she  turns  about  in  all  sorts  of  shapes, 
like  those  kaleidoscopes  they  used  to  give  us  children  when 
I  was  little,  only  she  never  rattles  (they  did,  dreadfully) — for 
I  am  sure  a  softer  voice  /  never  heard,  unless  it  was  that  of 
the  Old  Madam,  who  used  to  say  in  velvet  tones  the  most 
ferocious  things  you  ever  heard.  Ah,  you  should  have  seen 
her ! — straight  as  an  arrow,  and  they  said  she  was  ninety  for 
over  thirty  years,  which  of  course  was  impossible,  even  if  she 
had  wished  it,  which  I  doubt,  for  there  is  the  well-known 
Bible  age  of  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  to  have  exceeded 
it  to  that  extent  would  have  been  irreverent.  She  was  poor 
Eddie  Thome's  aunt,  the  sister  of  his  mother,  a  Duero  and  a 
tremendous  one,  dyed  in  ancestors  to  the  core  ;  every  one  was 
afraid  of  her  but  Garda,  and  Garda  she  took  complete  charge 
of  as  long  as  she  lived,  though  Mistress  Thome  did  what  she 
could  on  the  outskirts — not  much,  I  fancy,  for  the  Old  Madam 
declared  that  the  child  was  a  true  Duero  and  should  be  brought 
up  as  one,  which  seemed  to  mean  principally  that  she  should 
swing  in  the  hammock,  and  not  learn  verbs.  I  think  Mis 
tress  Thome  began  to  teach  Garda  verbs  the  day  after  the 
funeral ;  at  least  when  I  went  down  there  to  pay  a  visit  of 
condolence  I  found  her  with  a  grammar  in  her  hand,  and  a 
good  deal  of  cheerfulness  under  the  circumstances — a  good 
deal !  The  first  Edgar  Thome,  the  one  who  came  out  from 
England,  is  said  to  have  been  a  man  of  a  good  deal  of  force 
of  character,  for  he  kept  a  coach  and  four,  and  at  that  early 
day,  on  these  pine-barrens,  it  almost  seemed  as  if  he  must 
have  created  them  by  magic,  which  makes  one  think  of 
Cinderella  and  her  rats,  doesn't  it?  And  indeed,  in  this 
case,  the  horses  did  turn  into  rats,  as  one  may  say,  before 
their  very  eyes ;  the  poor  Thornes  have  no  horses  now"  said 
the  kind-hearted  lady,  pausing  to  shake  her  head  sympathet 
ically,  and  then  speeding  on  again.  "They  say  that  rats 
desert  a  sinking  ship — though  I  have  always  wondered  how, 
since  ships  are  not  apt  to  sink  at  the  piers,  are  they  ? — and  I 
never  heard  that  rats  could  make  rafts,  though  squirrels  can, 
they  say — a  bit  of  plank  with  their  tails  put  up  as  a  sail, 
though  of  course  rats'  tails  would  never  do  for  that,  they  arc 
so  thin  ;  but  if  rats  do  desert  their  ship,  Mistress  Thorne 
will  never  desert  hers,  she  will  keep  the  Thorne  colors  flying 


G2  EAST  ANGELS. 

to  the  last,  and  go  down,  if  down  she  must,  with  the  silent 
courage  of  the  Spartan  boy — although  it  was  a  fox  he  had 
gnawing  him,  wasn't  it  ?  and  not  a  rat ;  but  it  makes  no  dif 
ference,  it's  the  principle  that's  important,  not  the  illustra 
tion.  Garda's  name  is  really  Edgarda,  Edgarda  after  all  the 
Thornes,  who,  it  seems,  have  been  Edgars  and  Edgardas  for 
centuries,  which  I  should  think  must  have  been  very  incon 
venient,  for,  just  to  mention  one  thing,  they  could  never 
have  signed  their  names  in  initials,  because  that  would  have 
meant  fathers  and  sons  and  brothers  and  sisters  indiscrimi 
nately,  in  fact  all  of  them  except  the  wives,  who,  having  come 
in  from  outside  families,  would  be  able,  fortunately,  to  be 
plain  Mary  and  Jane.  I  am  very  fond  of  Garda,  as  indeed 
we  all  are ;  and  I  think  she  has  wonderful  beauty,  don't 
you  ? — though  rather  Spanish  perhaps.  When  she  was 
about  twelve  years  old  I  was  afraid  that  the  tinge  of  her 
mother  in  her  was  going  to  make  her  thin ;  but  Nature  fort 
unately  prevented  that  in  time,  for  you  know  that  once  an 
elbow  gets  fixed  in  the  habit  of  being  sharp,  sharp  it  remains 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  though  you  may  have  pounds  and 
pounds  both  above  and  below  it,  which  seems  strange,  doesn't 
it?  though  of  course  it  must  serve  some  good  purpose,  as  we 
ought  all  to  believe.  And  that  reminds  me  to  say  that  I 
hope  dear  Katrina  has  gained  flesh  since  she  left  school,  for 
she  used  to  be  rather  too  slender  (though  very  handsome 
otherwise),  so  that,  in  profile  view,  you  couldn't  help  think 
ing  of  a  paper-cutter,  and  you  doubted  whether  she  could 
even  cast  a  shadow — like  the  man  without  a  shadow,  you 
remember,  who  used  to  double  his  up  and  put  it  in  his  pocket 
— only  of  course  dear  Katrina  was  never  anything  horrible 
like  that,  and,  after  all,  why  we  should  wish  to  cast  shadows 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know  ;  certainly  there  are  enough  of  them, 
as  it  is,  in  this  vale  of  tears.  If  you  like,  I  will  take  you 
down  some  day  to  call  upon  the  Thornes ;  they  will  be  de 
lighted  to  see  us  and  we  shall  be  like  angels'  visits,  few  and 
far  between,  or  fair  as  a  star  when  only  one ;  I  hope  you  like 
poetry — you  modern  young  gentlemen  have  such  a  way  of 
being  above  it !  JJut  Mr.  Oarew  was  always  very  fond  of 
Mrs.  Ilemans." 

The  monologues  of  Mr.  Carew's  relict  could  with  the  ut- 


EAST  ANGELS.  6B 

most  case  be  regulated,  their  flowing  currents  turned  aside 
into  another  channel  (from  which  they  never  came  back  to 
the  first  one),  or  stopped  entirely,  by  any  one  who  wished 
to  accomplish  it,  the  lady's  boundless  good-nature  prevent 
ing  her  from  even  perceiving  that  she  had  been  interrupted. 
But  Evert  Winthrop  had  no  wish  to  interrupt,  he  was  enjoy 
ing  the  current's  vagaries ;  upon  this  occasion,  therefore,  it 
pursued  its  way  unchecked  to  the  end — a  thing  which  rarely 
happened,  all  Gracias  having  the  habit  of  damming  it  tem 
porarily,  turning  it  aside,  or  stopping  it  abruptly,  in  a  brisk 
manner  which  showed  long  usage. 

To-day,  when  at  last  this  easy-tempered  lady  paused  of 
her  own  accord,  Winthrop  accepted  her  invitation  promptly  ; 
he  spoke  of  coming  for  her  with  a  carriage  the  next  after 
noon  ;  he  should  enjoy  seeing  something  of  the  interior, 
those  singular  roads  across  the  barrens  which  were  so  old 
and  untouched  and  yet  in  such  perfect  condition — so  he  had 
been  told. 

When  he  had  brought  his  little  speech  to  a  close,  his  host 
ess  gave  way  to  laughter  (her  laugh  was  hearty,  her  whole 
amplitude  took  part  in  it).  "But  this  isn't  interior,"  she 
said,  "  this  is  coast ;  East  Angels  is  down  the  river,  south  of 
here ;  when  I  said  I  would  take  yon,  I  meant  in  a  boat." 

She  had  in  her  mind  Uncle  Cato,  and  the  broad,  safe,  old 
row-boat,  painted  black  and  indefinite  as  to  bow  and  stern, 
which  that  venerable  negro  propelled  up  and  down  the 
Espiritu  as  custom  required.  But  instead  of  voyaging  in 
this  ancient  bark,  Winthrop  persuaded  her  to  intrust  herself 
to  the  rakish-looking  little  craft,  sloop-rigged,  which  he  had 
engaged  for  his  own  use  among  the  lagoons  during  his  stay 
in  Gracias,  a  direct  descendant,  no  doubt,  of  the  swift  pirat 
ical  barks  of  the  wreckers  and  smugglers  who,  until  a  very 
recent  date,  had  infested  the  Florida  keys.  Once  on  board, 
Mrs.  Carew  adjured  the  man  at  the  helm  to  "keep  the  floor 
straight  at  any  price,"  and  then  seating  herself,  and  seiz 
ing  hold  of  the  first  solid  object  she  could  find,  she  tightly 
closed  her  eyes  and  did  not  again  open  them,  being  of  the 
opinion  apparently  that  the  full  force  of  a  direct  glance 
would  infallibly  upset  the  boat.  She  had  postponed  their 
visit  for  a  day,  in  order  that  she  might  have  time  to  send 


G4  EAST  ANGELS. 

Uncle  Cato  down  to  East  Angels,  with  a  note  saying  that 
they  were  coming.  Stately  Raquel,  in  a  freshly  starched 
turban,  was  therefore  in  waiting* to  open  the  lower  door; 
Mrs.  Thome's  best  topics  were  arranged  in  order  in  her 
mind,  as  well  as  orange  wine  and  wafers  upon  her  sideboard, 
and  Garcia  also,  neither  asleep  in  the  hammock  nor  wander 
ing  afield  with  the  crane,  was  in  readiness,  sitting  expectant 
in  an  old  mahogany  arm -chair,  attired  in  her  best  gown. 
Poor  Garda  had  but  two  gowns  to  choose  from,  both  faded, 
both  old ;  but  the  one  called  best  had  been  lately  freshened 
and  mended  by  the  skilful  hands  of  the  tireless  mother. 

"  When  that  little  woman  dies,  some  of  her  mendings 
ought  to  be  enclosed  in  a  glass  case  and  set  up  over  her 
grave  as  a  monument,  I  do  declare !"  said  Mrs.  Carew,  as, 
again  voluntarily  blinded,  she  sailed  back  to  Gracias  with 
Winthrop  over  the  sunset-tinted  water.  "Did  you  notice 
that  place  on  Garda's  left  sleeve  ?  But  of  course  you  didn't. 
Well,  it  was  a  perfect  miracle  of  patience,  which  Job  himself 
couldn't  have  equalled  (and  certainly  the  Thornes  are  as  poor 
as  Job,  and  Carlos  might  well  be  the  turkey) ;  as  black  silk, 
or  even  black  thread,  would  have  shone  —  they  will  shine, 
you  know,  in  spite  of  all  you  can  do,  even  if  you  ink  them — 
she  had  actually  used  ravellings,  and  alpaca  ravellings — yon 
know  what  they  are !  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  nicer  to 
have  that  sail  out  sideways,  as  it  was  when  we  came  down, 
and  go  straight,  instead  of  slanting  in  this  way  back  and 
forth  across  the  river?" 

Evert  Winthrop,  thus  introduced,  had  received  from  the 
mistress  of  East  Angels  an  invitation  to  repeat  his  visit. 
lie  had  repeated  it  several  times.  It  was  easy  to  do  this,  as, 
in  addition  to  the  piratical  little  craft  already  mentioned,  he 
had  engaged  a  saddle-horse,  and  was  now  amusing  himself 
exploring  the  old  roads  that  led  southward. 

Upon  returning  from  one  of  these  rides  he  found  await 
ing  him  a  letter  from  the  North.  It  was  from  his  aunt,  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  and  contained  the  intelligence  that  she  was  com 
ing  southward  immediately,  having  been  ordered  to  a  warm 
er  climate  on  account  of  the  "  threatening^  of  neuralgia,  that 
tiresome  neuralgia,  my  dear  boy,  that  makes  my  life  such  a 
burden.  1  am  so  tired  of  1'au  nnd  Nice  that,  instead  of 


EAST  ANGELS.  65 

crossing  that  cold  ocean  again,  I  have  suddenly  made  up  my 
mind  to  come  down  and  join  you  under  the  blue  sky  you 
have  discovered  down  there — Egypt,  you  say,  Egypt  with 
out  the  ruins ;  but  as  I  am  a  good  deal  of  a  ruin  myself  just 
now,  I  shall  not  mind  that  lack ;  in  fact,  can  supply  it  in  my 
own  person.  My  love  to  Betty  Carew  ;  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  see  her  again  after  all  these  years.  Margaret  comes  with 
me,  of  course,  and  we  shall  probably  follow  this  letter  without 
much  delay." 

Winthrop  was  surprised.  He  knew  that  his  aunt  was  fond 
of  what  she  patriotically  called  her  "  own  country  ;"  but  he 
should  have  said  that  she  would  not  probably  consider  that 
there  was  any  of  it  worth  her  personal  consideration  south 
of  Philadelphia,  or,  at  the  utmost,  south  of  Baltimore  and 
Washington.  This  amiably  blind  lady  was,  however,  a  great 
traveller,  in  her  leisurely  way  she  had  taken  long  journeys 
across  Europe  and  the  East;  if  she  did  not  know  the  Mis 
sissippi,  she  knew  the  Nile ;  if  Shasta  was  a  stranger  to 
her  eyes,  the  Finsteraarhorn  and  Vesuvius  were  old  friends. 
Shasta,  indeed  ! — where  was  Shasta  ?  She  had  once  been  to 
Niagara  Falls. 

Her  nephew  smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  that  proba 
bly,  in  her  own  mind,  her  present  undertaking  wore  much  of 
the  air  of  an  exploring  expedition,  the  kind  of  tour  through 
remote  regions  that  people  made  sometimes,  and  then  wrote 
books  about — books  with  a  great  many  illustrations. 

But  Mrs.  Rutherford  would  write  no  books.  This  lady  no 
ticed  but  slightly  the  characteristics  of  the  countries  through 
which  she  passed,  she  never  troubled  her  mind  with  impres 
sions,  or  burdened  it  with  comparisons.  She  seldom  visited 
"objects  of  interest,"  but  was  always  "  rather  tired"  when 
the  appointed  hour  came,  and  thought  she  would  lie  down 
for  a  while ;  they  could  tell  her  about  it  afterwards.  Yet  in 
her  easy,  irresponsible  fashion  she  enjoyed  travelling;  she 
liked  new  scenes  and  new  people,  especially  new  people.  In 
the  evening,  after  a  quiet  (but  excellent)  little  dinner,  and 
twenty  minutes  or  so  of  lady-like  tranquillity  after  it,  Mrs. 
Rutherford  was  always  pleased  to  see  the  new  people  afore 
said  ;  and  it  could  with  truth  be  added  that  the  new  people 
were,  as  a  general  thing,  equally  pleased  to  sec  her.  She  was 


66  EAST  ANGELS. 

a  handsome,  stately  woman,  with  agreeable  manners,  and  so 
well  dressed  that  that  alone  was  a  pleasure — a  pleasure  to  the 
eyes;  it  was  an  attire  rich  and  quiet,  which  combined  with 
extraordinary  skill  the  two  often  sadly  dissevered  qualities 
of  personal  becomingness  and  adaptation  to  the  fashion  of 
the  hour. 

Evert  Winthrop  was  much  attached  to  his  aunt.  Asso 
ciated  with  her  were  the  happiest  memories  of  his  childhood. 
He  knew  that  her  strongest  love  had  not  been  given  to  him, 
it  had  been  given  to  her  other  nephew,  his  cousin  Lansing 
Harold.  But  of  Lansing  she  had  had  entire  charge  from  his 
birth,  he  had  been  to  her  like  her  own  child,  while  Andrew 
Winthrop  had  kept  closely  in  his  own  care  his  motherless 
little  son  Evert,  allowing  him  to  spend  only  his  vacations  with 
his  aunt  Katrina — who  was  spoiling  one  boy  (so  thought  the 
New-Englander)  as  fast  as  possible,  but  who  should  not  be 
permitted  to  spoil  another.  These  vacations,  so  grudgingly 
granted,  had  been  very  happy  times  for  the  little  Evert,  and 
their  memory  remained  with  him  still.  As  lie  grew  older  he 
had  gradually  become  conscious  of  some  of  the  traits  and 
tendencies  of  his  aunt's  mind,  apart  from  his  boyish  idea  of 
her,  as  we  generally  do  become  conscious,  by  degrees,  of  the 
traits  (as  they  are  estimated  by  others)  of  even  those  who 
are  nearest  and  dearest,  save  in  the  case  of  our  parents,  who 
remain  always,  beautifully  always,  "  father  "  and  "  mother  "  to 
the  end,  precious  beyond  all  analysis,  all  comparison.  Sepa 
rating  itself,  therefore,  from  the  delightful  indulgence  with 
which  she  had  sweetened  his  boyhood  days,  separating  itself 
from  his  own  unquestioning  childish  belief  in  her,  there  had 
gradually  come  to  Evert  Winthrop  (though  without  any  dim 
inution  of  his  affection  for  her)  the  consciousness  that  his 
aunt's  nature  was  a  narrow  one.  Her  narrowness  could  have 
been  summed  up  roughly  in  the  statement  that  her  views  upon 
every  subject  were  purely  personal  ones.  It  was  difficult  to 
realize  how  personal  they  were,  Winthrop  himself,  well  as  he 
knew  her,  had  only  within  the  past  five  or  six  years  become 
fully  conscious  of  the  absolute  predominance  of  the  principle. 
No  one  besides  himself  had  had  the  opportunity  to  make  the 
same  discovery,  save  possibly — so  he  had  sometimes  thought 
with  a  smile — the  departed  Peter  Rutherford,  the  lady's  lius- 


EAST  ANGELS.  67 

hand.  But  Peter  Rutherford,  among  many  excellent  quali 
ties,  had  not  been  endowed  with  a  delicate  observation,  and 
indeed  having  been  of  a  robust  and  simple  nature,  he  had 
had  small  respect  for  the  talent,  at  least  in  a  man,  associating 
it  vaguely  with  a  knowledge  of  millinery,  with  a  taste  for 
spelling-games  and  puzzles,  for  cake  and  religious  novels — 
things  he  considered  unworthy  of  the  masculine  mind.  His 
wife's  nephew,  however,  though  not  a  judge  of  millinery,  and 
not  interested  in  the  mild  entertainments  and  literature  re 
ferred  to,  possessed  observation  in  abundance,  and  with  re 
gard  to  his  aunt  he  had  not  been  able  to  keep  it  from  exer 
cising  itself,  at  least  to  a  certain  degree.  He  had  discovered 
• — he  had  been  unable  to  help  discovering — the  secret  springs 
that  moved  much  of  her  speech ;  and  these  springs  were  so 
simple  that,  in  a  complicated  age,  they  seemed  extraordinary. 
Her  opinions  of  persons  (he  knew  it  now)  were  based  entire 
ly  upon  the  narrow  but  well-defined  foundation  of  their  be 
havior  to  herself. 

Concerning  people  with  whom  she  had  no  personal  ac 
quaintance,  she  was  utterly  without  opinions ;  no  matter  how 
eminent  they  might  be,  they  were  no  more  to  her  than  so 
much  sand  of  the  shore.  You  might  talk  to  her  about  them 
by  the  hour,  and  she  would  listen  approvingly,  or  at  least 
quite  without  contradiction.  People  spoke  of  her,  therefore, 
as  very  appreciative,  and,  for  a  woman,  broad-minded.  What, 
in  truth,  can  be  more  broad-minded  in  one  of  the  sex  most 
given  to  partisanship  than  to  be  able  to  listen  with  unpreju 
diced  attention  to  the  admirers  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  A.,  the  dis 
tinguished  High-Church  clergyman,  and  then  the  very  next 
day  to  the  friends  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  B.,  equally  eminent,  but 
Low;  to  the  devotees  of  the  C.  family,  who  trace  their  de 
scent  directly  from  old  English  barons  —  passing  over,  of 
course,  that  unimportant  ancestor  who  happened  to  have 
been  the  one  to  cross  to  the  New  World,  and  who,  immedi 
ately  after  his  arrival,  engaged  in  blacksmithing,  and  became 
in  time  the  best  blacksmith  the  struggling  little  colony  pos 
sessed — to  listen,  I  say,  to  the  partisans  of  this  ancient  race, 
and  then  to  hearken  the  next  afternoon  with  equal  equanim 
ity  to  warm  praise  of  the  D.'s,  who,  having  made  their  great 
fortune  so  vigorously  in  the  present  generation,  are  engaged 


68  EAST  ANGELS. 

in  spending  it  with  a  vigor  equally  commendable — what,  in 
deed,  could  be  broader  than  this?  It  never  occurred  to  these 
talkers  that  A.  and  B.,  the  C.'s  and  the  D.'s,  alike,  were  all 
non-existent  bodies,  nebula?,  to  Mrs.  Peter  Rutherford  so  long 
as  she  was  not  personally  acquainted  with  them,  so  long  as 
their  names  were  not  upon  her  visiting  list. 

But  when  once  this  had  been  discovered,  as  Evert  Win- 
throp  had  discovered  it,  it  made  everything  clear ;  it  was  per 
fectly  easy  to  understand  her,  easy  to  see  how  simple  the 
opinions  appeared  to  the  lady  herself,  since  they  had  to  do 
merely  with  a  series  of  facts.  If  Mr.  X.  had  been  polite  to 
her,  if  he  had  been  attentive,  deferential,  he  was  without 
doubt  (if  at  all  presentable)  a  most  delightful  and  praise 
worthy  person  in  every  way.  If  Mr.  X.  had  been  civil  to  a 
certain  extent,  yet  on  the  whole  rather  indifferent,  be  was  a 
little  dull,  she  thought ;  a  good  sort  of  a  man  perhaps,  but 
not  interesting;  tiresome.  If  Mr.  X.  had  simply  left  her 
alone,  without  either  civility  or  incivility,  she  was  apt  to  have 
mysterious  intuitions  about  him,  intuitions  which  she  men 
tioned,  confidentially  of  course,  to  her  friends;  little  things 
which  she  had  noticed — indications.  Of  bad  temper?  Or 
was  it  bad  habits  ?  It  was  something  bad,  at  any  rate  ;  she 
was  very  ingenious  in  reading  the  signs.  But  if  Mr.  X.  had 
been  guilty  of  actual  rudeness  (a  quality  which  she  judged 
strictly  by  the  standard  of  her  own  hidden  but  rigorous  re 
quirements),  Mr.  X.  was  immediately  thrust  beyond  the  pale, 
there  was  no  good  in  him  ;  in  the  way  of  odious  traits  there 
was  nothing  which  she  did  not  attribute  to  him  at  one  time 
or  another,  she  could  even  hint  at  darker  guilt.  She  won 
dered  that  people  should  continue  to  receive  him,  and  to  her 
dying  day  she  never  forgot  to  give,  upon  opportunity,  her 
well-aimed  thrust — a  thrust  all  the  more  effective  because 
masked  by  her  reputation  for  amiability  and  frank,  liberal 
qualities. 

As,  however,  people  generally  were  sufficiently  attentive, 
this  lady's  judgments  seldom  reached  the  last -mentioned 
stage,  a  condition  of  things  which  she  herself  was  the  first  to 
approve,  because  (this  was  the  most  curious  shade  of  her  dis 
position)  she  believed  fully  in  her  own  opinions,  and  would 
have  disliked  greatly  to  "  have  anything  to  do  with  unprin- 


EAST  ANGELS.  69 

ciplcd  persons."  But  the  world  at  large  had  no  suspicion  of 
these  intricacies;  to  the  world  at  large  Mrs.  Rutherford  was 
a  handsome,  amiable  woman,  who,  possessing  a  good  fortune, 
a  good  house  in  New  York,  a  good  old  country-place  on  the 
Sound,  and  much  hospitality,  was  considered  to  be  above 
petty  criticisms — criticisms  which  would  do  for  people  less 
pleasing,  less  well-endowed. 

But  though  he  read  his  aunt's  nature,  Winthrop  was  none 
the  less  attached  to  her ;  it  might  be  said,  perhaps,  with  more 
accuracy,  that  he  was  fond  of  her.  He  had  been  a  very  lone 
ly  little  boy,  his  father  while  loving  him  deeply  had  been 
strict  with  him,  and  had  permitted  him  few  amusements,  few 
companions;  to  go,  therefore,  and  spend  a  month  with  his 
aunt  Katrina,  to  taste  her  indulgent  kindness  and  enjoy  the 
liberty  she  allowed,  to  have  her  come  and  kiss  him  good 
night,  and  talk  to  him  about  his  beautiful  mother,  to  have 
her  take  him  up  on  her  lap  and  pet  him  when  he  was  a  tired- 
out,  drooping  little  fellow  after  immense  exertions  with  his 
big  cousin  Lanse,  to  hear  her  stories  about  his  uncle  Evert 
(after  whom  he  had  been  named) — that  wonderful  Uncle  Ev 
ert  who  had  gone  down  to  Central  America  to  see  the  Aztecs 
— these  things  had  been  deeply  delightful  at  the  time  to  the 
child,  whose  nature  was  reserved  and  concentrated.  And  if 
the  details  were  no  longer  distinct,  now  that  he  was  a  man, 
the  general  remembrance  at  least  was  always  there,  the  re 
membrance  of  happy  hours  and  motherly  caresses.  He  there 
fore  welcomed  the  idea  of  his  aunt's  coming  to  Gracias. 
Though  what  Mrs.  Peter  Rutherford  would  be  able  to  find  in 
that  sleepy  little  hamlet  in  the  way  of  entertainment,  he  did 
not  pretend  to  have  discovered. 

Five  days  later  the  party  arrived,  his  aunt,  her  niece  Mrs. 
Harold,  her  maid  Celestine.  - 

As  he  greeted  Mrs.  Rutherford,  Winthrop  remarked  to  him 
self,  as  he  had  remarked  many  times  before,  that  his  aunt 
was  a  fine-looking  woman.  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  sixty  years 
of  age,  tall,  erect,  with  a  well-cut  profile,  and  beautiful  gray 
hair,  which  lay  in  soft  waves,  like  a  silvery  cloud,  above  her 
fine  dark  eyes.  The  state  of  her  health  had  evidently  not 
interfered  with  the  arrangement  of  this  aureola,  neither  had 
it  relaxed  in  any  degree  the  grave  perfection  of  her  attire ; 


70  EAST  ANGELS. 

her  bonnet  was  a  model  of  elegance  and  simplicity,  her  boot, 
as  she  stepped  from  the  carriage,  was  seen  to  be  another 
model  of  elegance  and  good  sense.  Mrs.  Rutherford  loved 
elegance.  But  Mrs.  Rutherford  loved  indolence  as  well,  and 
indolence  never  constructed  or  kept  in  order  an  appearance 
such  as  hers;  the  person  (of  very  different  aspect)  who  fol 
lowed  her,  laden  with  baskets,  cushions,  and  shawls,  was  the 
real  architect  of  this  fine  structure,  from  the  soft  waves  of 
hair  to  the  well-shaped  boot ;  this  person  was  Celestine,  the 
maid. 

Celestine' s  real  name  was  Minerva  Poindexter.  Her  mis 
tress,  not  liking  the  classic  appellation,  had  changed  it  to 
Celestine,  the  Poindexter  being  dropped  entirely.  Mrs.  Ruth 
erford  was  accustomed  to  say  that  this  was  her  one  deliber 
ate  affectation  —  she  affected  to  believe  that  Celestine  was 
French ;  the  maid,  a  tall,  lean,  yellow-skinned  woman,  reti 
cent  and  unsmiling,  might  have  been  French  or  Scotch,  Por 
tuguese  or  Brazilian,  as  far  as  appearance  went,  tall,  lean 
women  of  unmarried  aspect  being  a  product  scattered  in  reg 
ular,  if  limited,  quantities  over  the  face  of  the  entire  civilized 
globe.  As  she  seldom  opened  her  lips,  her  nationality  could 
not  be  determined  by  an  inquiring  public  from  her  speech. 
There  were  those,  however,  who  maintained  that  Celestine 
knew  all  languages,  that  there  was  a  dark  omniscience  about 
her.  In  reality  she  was  a  Vermont  woman,  who  had  begun 
life  as  a  country  dress-maker — a  country  dress-maker  with 
great  natural  talent  but  no  opportunities.  The  opportunities 
had  come  later,  they  came  when  she  was  discovered  by  Mrs. 
Peter  Rutherford.  This  tall  Vermont  genius  had  now  filled 
for  many  years  a  position  which  was  very  congenial  to  her, 
though  it  would  have  been  considered  by  most  persons  a 
position  full  of  difficulties.  For  Mrs.  Rutherford  required  in 
her  personal  attendant  talents  which  are  generally  supposed 
to  be  conflicting:  esteeming  her  health  very  delicate,  she 
wished  to  be  minutely  watched  and  guarded  by  an  experi 
enced  nurse,  a  nurse  who  should  take  to  heart  conscientious 
ly  the  responsibilities  of  her  charge;  yet  at  the  same  time 
she  cherished  that  deep  interest  in  the  constantly  changing 
arcana  of  feminine  attire  for  which  it  is  supposed  that  only 
a  skilful  but  probably  immoral  Parisian  can  suffice. 


EAST  ANGELS.  71 

But  the  keen  New  England  eyes  of  Minerva  Poindcxtcr 
had  an  instant  appreciation  of  such  characteristics  of  arriv 
ing  fashions  as  could  be  gracefully  adopted  by  her  handsome 
mistress,  whose  best  points  she  thoroughly  understood,  and 
even  in  a  certain  way  admired,  though  as  regarded  herself, 
and  indeed  all  the  rest  of  womankind,  she  approved  rigidly 
of  that  strict  neutrality  of  surface,  that  ignoring  of  all  mere 
ly  corporeal  points,  which  is  so  striking  a  characteristic  of 
the  monastic  heavenly  paintings  of  Fra  Angelico.  At  the 
same  moment,  however,  that  her  New  England  eyes  were  ex 
ercising  their  natural  talent,  her  New  England  conscience, 
equally  keen,  made  her  a  nurse  of  unmatched  qualities,  albeit 
she  was  perhaps  something  of  a  martinet.  But  with  regard 
to  her  health  Mrs.  Rutherford  rather  liked  to  be  domineered 
over.  She  liked  to  be  followed  about  by  shawls  (her  shawls 
were  always  beautiful,  never  having  that  niggardly,  poverty- 
stricken  aspect  which  such  feminine  draperies,  when  reserved 
for  use  in  the  house,  are  apt  to  assume) ;  she  liked  to  be  vig 
ilantly  watched  with  regard  to  draughts;  she  liked  to  have 
her  pulse  felt,  to  have  cushions,  handsomely  covered  in  rich 
coloi-Sj  placed  behind  her  well-dressed  back.  Especially  did 
she  like  to  be  presented,  at  fixed  hours,  with  little  tea-spoon 
fuls  of  homooopathic  medicine,  which  did  not  taste  badly, 
but  which,  nevertheless,  it  always  required  some  urging  to 
induce  her  to  take ;  the  urging — in  fact,  the  whole  system, 
regularly  persevered  in  —  could  give  variety  to  the  dullest 
day. 

After  greeting  his  aunt,  Winthrop  turned  to  speak  to  Cc- 
lestine.  By  way  of  reply  Celcstine  gave  a  short  nod,  and 
looked  in  another  direction.  In  reality  she  was  delighted 
with  his  notice,  but  this  was  her  way  of  showing  it.  The 
two  boys,  Evert  Winthrop  and  Lansing  Harold,  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford's  nephews,  had  been  her  pets  from  childhood ;  but  even 
in  the  old  days  her  manner  towards  them  had  always  been  so 
curt  and  taciturn  that  they  used  to  consider  it  a  great  triumph 
when  they  had  succeeded  in  drawing  out  Minerva's  laugh— 
for  they  always  called  her  Minerva  behind  Mrs.  Rutherford's 
back.  It  may  be  that  this  had  had  something  to  do  with 
her  liking  for  them ;  for,  in  her  heart,  Miss  Poindexter  con 
sidered  her  baptismal  name  both  a  euphonious  and  dignified 


72  EAST  ANGELS. 

one,  and  much  to  be  preferred  to  the  French  frivolity  of  the 
title  to  which  she  was  obliged  to  answer. 

"  But  where  is  Margaret  ?"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  turning. 

A  third  person,  who  had  been  looking  at  the  new  scene 
about  her — the  orange-trees,  the  palmettoes,  the  blue  water 
of  the  Espiritu  beyond  the  low  sea-wall,  and  the  fringe  of 
tropical  forest  on  Patricio  opposite — now  stepped  from  the 
carriage. 

"  I  was  beginning  to  think  that  there  had  been  some  change 
of  plan,  Mrs.  Harold,  and  that  you  had  not  come,"  said  Win- 
throp,  going  back  to  the  carriage  to  assist  her. 

Margaret  Harold  smiled.  Her  smile  was  a  very  pleasant 
one ;  she  and  Winthrop  greeted  each  other  with  what  seemed 
like  a  long-established,  though  quiet  and  well-governed,  cold 
ness. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LATER  in  the  evening  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  sitting  with 
her  nephew  on  the  piazza  of  her  new  residence,  the  little 
house  he  had  engaged  for  her  tise  during  her  stay  in  Gracias; 
they  were  looking  at  the  moonlight  on  the  lagoon. 

The  little  residence  had  but  one  story,  and  that  story  was 
a  second  one.  It  had  been  built  above  an  old  passageway  of 
stone,  which  had  led  from  the  Franciscan  monastery  down  to 
the  monks'  landing-place  on  the  shore ;  the  passageway  made 
a  turn  at  a  right  angle  not  far  from  the  water,  and  this  an 
gle  had  been  taken  possession  of  by  the  later  architect,  who 
had  rested  his  square  superstructure  solidly  on  the  old  walls 
at  the  south  and  west,  and  had  then  built  a  light  open  arch 
below  to  support  the  two  remaining  sides,  thus  securing  an 
elevated  position,  and  a  beautiful  view  of  the  sea  beyond 
Patricio,  at  comparatively  small  expense  for  his  high  foun 
dation.  An  outside  stairway  of  stone,  which  made  a  pictu 
resque  turn  on  the  way,  led  up  to  the  door  of  this  abode,  and, 
taken  altogether,  it  was  an  odd  and  pleasant  little  eyrie  on  a 
pleasant  shore. 

Evert  Winthrop,  however,  when  he  secured  it  for  his  aunt, 
had  not  been  thinking  so  much  of  its  pleasantness  as  its  free- 


EAST  ANGELS.  73 

dom  from  damp,  Mrs.  Rutherford  having  long  been  of  the 
opinion  that  most  of  the  evils  of  life,  mental,  moral,  and 
physical,  and  even  in  a  great  measure  the  disasters  of  na 
tions,  could  be  directly  traced  to  the  condition  of  cellars. 

"  You  will  observe,  Aunt  Katrina,  that  there  is  no  cellar," 
he  remarked  as  she  took  possession. 

The  eyrie  had  but  one  fault,  and  that  was  a  fault  only  if 
people  were  disposed  to  be  sentimental :  the  old  walls  be 
neath,  built  by  the  monks  long  before,  had  the  air  of  per 
forming  their  present  duty  with  extreme  unwillingness.  Com 
ing  up  from  the  water,  they  passed  under  the  modern  house 
reluctantly,  supporting  it  under  protest,  as  it  were;  their  cold 
disapprovals  seemed  to  come  through  the  floors. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  declared  that  it  made  her  feel  "  sacrile 
gious."  But  the  sentiments  of  Minerva  Poindextcr  were  of 
an  entirely  different  nature.  "I  admire  to  have  'em  there," 
said  this  rigid  Protestant ;  "  I  admire  to  know  they're  under 
my  feet,  so  that  I  can  tromple  'em  down !"  For  though  she 
had  been  over  the  entire  civilized  world,  though  she  could 
adapt  Paris  fashions,  and  was  called  Celestine,  Miss  Poindex- 
ter  had  never  in  her  heart  abated  one  inch  of  her  original 
Puritan  principles,  and  as  she  now  came  and  went  over  the 
old  monks'  passage,  her  very  soles  rejoiced  in  the  opportu 
nity  to  express  their  utter  detestation  of  the  monastic  system, 
she  ground  them  deeply  into  the  mattings  on  purpose. 

The  little  plaza  of  Gracias-a-Dios  was  near  the  eyrie.  On 
one  side  of  it  stood  the  rambling  old  inn,  the  Seminole  House, 
encircled  by  a  line  of  stout  ancient  posts  for  the  use  of  its 
patrons,  who  for  the  most  part  had  come  mounted ;  for  in 
that  country  there  had  been  very  little  driving,  all  rode. 
There  had  been  horses  of  many  grades,  mules,  and  the  lit 
tle  ponies  not  much  larger  than  sheep  that  browsed  in  the 
marshes.  To  walk  was  beneath  the  dignity  of  any  one ;  the 
poorest  negro  had  his  sorry  animal  of  some  sort  to  save  him 
from  that.  As  to  walking  for  pleasure,  that  crazed  idea  had 
not  yet  reached  Gracias. 

The  Seminole  had  agreed  to  send  lunches  and  dinners  of 
its  best  cooking  to  the  eyrie,  and  its  best  cooking,  though 
confined  to  the  local  ingredients,  was  something  not  to  be  de 
spised;  it  owed  its  being  to  the  culinary  intuitions  of  Aunt 


74  EAST  ANGELS. 

Dinah-Jim,  a  native  artist,  who  evolved  in  some  mysterious 
way,  from  her  disorderly  kitchen,  the  dishes  for  which  she 
was  celebrated  at  uncertain  hours.  But  if  the  hours  were 
uncertain,  the  dishes  were  not. 

The  old  black  woman  sent  the  results  of  her  labors  to  the 
house  on  the  wall,  in  the  charge  of  Telano  Johnson,  a  tall, 
slender  colored  boy  of  eighteen  summers,  whose  spotless  white 
linen  jacket  and  intense  gravity  of  demeanor  gained  him  the 
favor  of  even  Celestine.  "  He  has  manners  like  the  Governor 
of  Vermont  and  all  his  staff,  I  do  declare !"  was  the  secret 
thought  of  this  good  woman.  Telano,  who  had  never  seen 
a  white  servant  before,  treated  Celestine  with  profound  re 
spect  ;  his  inward  belief  was  that  she  was  a  witch,  which 
would  account  for  her  inexplicable  leanness,  and  the  concise 
ness  of  her  remarks,  the  latter  most  singular  of  all  to  Telano, 
who  had  the  usual  flowery  fluency  of  his  race.  He  carried  a 
Voudoo  charm  against  her,  and  brandished  it  when  she  was 
not  looking;  in  addition,  he  often  arranged,  swiftly  and  fur 
tively,  in  a  corner  of  the  dining-room  when  he  came  to  lay 
the  cloth,  a  little  pile  of  three  minute  twigs  crossed  in  a  par 
ticular  fashion,  and  sprinkled  with  unknown  substances  which 
he  also  took  from  his  pocket,  the  whole  a  protection  from  her 
supposed  incantations  against  him.  Minerva  meanwhile  had 
no  suspicion  of  these  pagan  rites,  she  continued  to  be  pleased 
with  Telano,  and  had  a  plan  for  teaching  him  to  read.  The 
boy  sang  with  the  charming  sweetness  so  common  among  the 
Africans,  and  once,  after  listening,  duster  in  hand,  in  spite  of 
herself,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  as  he  carolled  over  the  dishes 
he  was  washing  in  his  pantry,  she  went  so  far  as  to  appear 
at  his  pantry  door  to  ask,  briefly,  if  he  knew  a  favorite  song 
of  her  youth,  "  The  Draggle-tail  Gypsies,  Oh  !"  Telano  did 
not  know  it.  And  she  said  she  would  sing  it  to  him  some  day. 
Whereupon  Telano,  as  soon  as  possible  afterwards,  took  flight 
in  his  long  white  apron  back  to  the  Seminole  House  for  a 
fresh  charm  against  her ;  he  was  convinced  that  the  singing 
of  this  strange  bony  woman  would  finish  him,  would  be  the 
worst  spell  of  all. 

"  That's  a  very  good  black  boy  we've  got  to  wait  at  table 
and  do  the  chores,"  Celestine  remarked  approvingly  to  her 
mistress,  as  she  brought  a  shawl  of  different  thickness,  suit- 


EAST   ANGELS.  75 

able  to  the  dew  in  the  air,  to  put  round  her.  "  He's  a  deal 
sight  more  serious-minded  than  the  rantum-scootum  boys  one 
has  to  put  up  with  in  a  wanderin'  life  like  this.  He's  spry, 
yet  he's  steady  too  ;  and  he  sings  like  a  bobolink,  though  his 
songs  are  most  dreadful  as  to  words.  There's  one,  *  O  Lord, 
these  bones  of  mine  !  O  Lord,  these  BONES  of  mine  !  O  Lord, 
these  BONES  of  mine!'  * — Celestine  sang  this  quotation  in  a 
high  chanting  voice,  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  face  screwed 
up  tightly,  which  was  her  usual  expression  when  musical. 
*'  And  I  suppose  it  refers  to  rheumatism,"  she.  added,  de 
scending  to  her  ordinary  tones ;  "  but  it's  very  irreverent.  He 
doesn't  know  '  The  Draggle-tail  Gypsies,'  nor  yet  '  Barbara 
Allen,'  nor  yet  Til  Make  You  a  Present  of  a  Coach  and  Six ;' 
but  I'm  going  to  sing  'em  to  him  some  day.  I  feel  that  I 
must  do  my  duty  by  him,  poor  neglected  African.  Have  you 
any  objections  to  my  teaching  him  to  read  ?" 

"No,  provided  he  doesn't  read  my  books,"  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford  answered. 

"He  will  read  in  McGuffey's  Third  Reader,"  responded 
Celestine. 

Winthrop  had  retained  his  bachelor  quarters  at  the  Sem- 
inole ;  the  house  over  the  old  monks'  passage  was  not  large, 
and  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  fond  of  space.  She  liked  open 
doors  in  all  directions,  she  liked  to  have  several  sitting-rooms; 
she  liked  to  leave  her  book  in  one,  her  fan  in  another,  her 
scent-bottle  or  handkerchief  in  a  third,  and  have  nobody  dis 
turb  them. 

"I  don't  detect  in  you,  Aunt  Katrina,  any  signs  of  the 
ruin  you  mentioned,"  her  nephew  said,  as  they  sat  together, 
that  first  evening,  on  the  piazza. 

The  light  from  the  room  within  shone  across  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford's  face  and  the  soft  waves  of  her  silvery  hair  as,  with  a 
pink  shawl  thrown  round  her,  she  sat  leaning  back  in  an 
easy-chair.  "  Celestine  repairs  the  breaches  so  cleverly  that 
no  doubt  I  continue  to  present  a  fair  appearance  to  the 
world,"  she  answered,  drawing  the  shawl  more  closely  round 
her  shoulders,  and  then  letting  her  hands  drop  on  its  pink 
fringes, 

Mrs.  Rutherford's  hands  always  took  statuesque  positions; 
but  probably  that  was  because  they  were  statuesque  hands. 


76  '  EAST  ANGELS. 

They  were  perfect  in  shape  according  to  sculptors'  rules,  full 
and  white,  one  ringless,  its  beautiful  outlines  unmarred,  the 
other  heavily  weighted  with  gems,which  flashed  as  she  moved. 

"But  pray  don't  imagine,  my  dear  boy,"  she  continued, 
"  that  I  enjoy  my  ill  health,  as  so  many  women  do.  On  the 
contrary,  I  dislike  it — dislike  it  so  much  that  I  have  even  ar 
ranged  with  Margaret  that  she  is  never  to  ask  me  (save  when 
we  arc  alone)  any  of  those  invalid-questions — whether  I  have 
slept  well,  how  iny  cough  is,  if  there  isn't  a  draught,  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  I  used  to  think  that  talking  with  a  mother 
when  her  children  were  in  the  room,  was  the  most  trying 
thing,  conversationally ;  she  listens  to  you  with  one  ear,  but 
the  other  is  listening  to  Johnnie;  right  in  the  midst  of  some 
thing  very  pathetic  you  are  telling  her,  she  will  give  a  sud 
den,  perfectly  irrelevant  smile,  over  her  baby's  last  crow,  and 
your  best  story  is  hopelessly  spoiled  because  she  loses  the 
point  (though  she  pretends  she  hasn't)  while  she  rearranges 
the  sashes  of  Ethel  and  Tottie  (they  are  always  rearranging 
them),  who  are  going  out  to  walk  with  their  nurse.  Bill?, 
bad  as  this  is,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion,  lately,  that  in 
valid-questions  are  worse,  because  they  are  not  confined  to 
the  hours  when  children  are  about;  and  so  I  have  given  Mar 
garet  my  directions." 

"  Which  are  to  be  mine  too,  I  suppose,"  said  Winthrop, 
smiling.  "  Mrs.  Harold  looks  well." 

"  Yes,  Margaret  always  looks  the  same,  I  think.  She  has 
not  that  highly  colored,  robust  appearance  that  some  women 
have,  but  her  health  is  absolutely  perfect ;  it's  really  quite 
wonderful,"  said  the  aunt.  She  paused  ;  then  sighed.  "  I 
almost  think  that  it  has  been  like  an  armor  to  her,"  she  went 
on.  "  I  don't  believe  she  feels  little  things  as  some  of  us  do, 
some  of  us  who  are  perhaps  more  sensitive ;  she  is  never 
nervous,  never  disturbed,  her  temper  is  so  even  that  it  is  al 
most  exasperating.  She  thinks  as  well  of  everything,  for  in 
stance,  in  an  east  wind  as  in  any  other." 

"A  great  gift  in  some  climates;  but  here  it  will  have  less  play. 
Gracias  air  isn't  easterly,  it  bends  towards  one — yields,  melts/' 

"  I  wish  Margaret  could  yield — melt,"  said  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford,  with  another  sigh.  "  You  see  my  mind  still  broods 
upon  it,  Evert ;  seeing  you,  my  other  boy,  brings  it  all  back," 


EAST  ANGELS.  77 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  suppose  yon  do,  whether  Lanse  has 
made  any  overtures  lately  ?"  said  Winthrop,  after  a  moment 
of  silence. 

"  I  know  nothing,  she  is  the  most  reticent  woman  living. 
But  it  would  not  be  like  him  ;  with  his  pride — you  know  his 
pride — he  would  never  speak  first,  never  urge." 

"  A  man  might  speak  first  to  his  wife,  I  should  suppose," 
replied  Winthrop,  a  stern  expression  showing  itself  for  a  mo 
ment  in  his  gray  eyes.  "  It  need  not  be  urging,  it  might  be 
a  command." 

"  Lanse  would  never  do  that.  It  would  show  that  he  eared, 
and — well,  you  know  his  disposition." 

"  I  used  to  think  that  I  knew  it ;  but  of  late  years  I  have 
doubted  my  knowledge." 

"Don't  doubt  it,  Evert,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  earnestly, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm, "  he  is  just  what  you  think,  just 
what  he  always  was.  We  understand  him,  you  and  I  —  we 
comprehend  him  ;  unfortunately,  Margaret  cannot." 

"  I  have  never  pretended  to  judge  Mrs.  Harold,"  answered 
Evert  Winthrop  (but  he  looked  as  if  he  might  have,  if  not  a 
judgment,  at  least  an  opinion)  ;  "  I  know  her  too  slightly." 

"  Yet  you  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  her  since  you  came 
back  from  Europe,"  remarked  his  aunt. 

"  I  have  seen  enough  to  know  that  she  is,  at  least,  a  very 
good  niece  to  you,"  he  answered. 

His  feeling  against  Margaret  Harold  was  strong,  it  was 
founded  upon  some  of  the  deepest  beliefs  of  his  nature. 
But  these  beliefs  were  his  own,  in  their  very  essence  they 
were  personal,  private,  he  could  not  have  discussed  them  with 
any  one;  especially  would  he  never  have  discussed  them 
with  his  aunt,  because  he  thought  that  she  did  not,  even  as  it 
was,  do  full  justice  to  Margaret  Harold,  and  he  had  no  wish 
to  increase  the  feeling.  On  the  contrary,  he  thought  that 
full  justice  should  always  be  scrupulously  awarded  to  that 
lady,  and  the  more  scrupulously  if  one  did  not  happen  to  like 
her;  he  himself, for  instance,  did  not  like  her;  on  that  very 
account  he  was  careful  always,  so  he  would  have  said,  to  keep 
in  clear  view  a  just  estimate  of  the  many  good  qualities 
which  she  undoubtedly  possessed. 

In  response  to  his  suggestion  that  Margaret  had  proved  her- 


78  EAST  ANGELS. 

self  a  good  niece,  Mrs.  Rutherford  answered,  in  a  voice  some 
what  softened,  "  Yes,  she  is  very  devoted  to  me."  Her  con 
science  seemed  to  stir  a  little,  for  she  went  on :  "  Regarding  my 
health,  my  personal  comfort,  she  is  certainly  most  thoughtful." 

Here  a  door  within  opened,  and  she  stopped.  They  heard 
a  light  step  cross  the  floor;  then  a  figure  appeared  in  the 
long  window  that  opened  upon  the  piazza. 

"Ah,  Margaret,  is  that  you?  You  have  finished  the  let 
ter?"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford.  "She  has  been  writing  to  my 
cousins,  to  tell  them  of  my  safe  arrival ;  I  did  not  feel  equal 
to  writing  myself,"  she  added,  to  Winthrop. 

He  had  risen  to  bring  forward  a  chair.  But  Margaret 
passed  him,  and  went  to  the  piazza  railing,  which  came  solid 
ly  up  as  high  as  one's  elbows,  with  a  broad  parapet  to  lean 
upon  ;  here  she  stood  looking  at  the  water. 

"  I  believe  now  all  I  have  heard  of  this  Florida  moon 
light,"  she  said,  her  eyes  on  the  broad  silvery  expanse  of  the 
ocean,  visible  beyond  the  low  line  of  Patricio.  She  had 
turned  her  head  a  little  as  she  spoke,  and  perceiving  that  a 
ray  from  the  room  within  was  shining  across  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford's  face,  she  stepped  back  through  the  window,  changed 
the  position  of  the  lamp,  and  returned. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear;  I  did  not  know  how  much  it  was 
teasing  me  until  you  moved  it,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford.  Per 
haps  she  still  felt  some  twinges  of  conscience,  for  she  added, 
"  Why  not  go  out  with  Evert  and  take  a  look  at  the  little 
old  town  by  moonlight?  It's  not  yet  nine." 

"I  shall  be  most  happy  if  Mrs.  Harold  is  not  too  tired," 
said  Winthrop.  lie  did  not  rise ;  but  probably  he  was  wait 
ing  for  her  consent. 

"  Margaret  is  never  tired,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  making 
the  statement  with  a  wave  of  her  hand — a  wave  which  drew 
a  Hash  from  all  her  gems. 

"  Yes,  that  is  one  of  the  things  quite  understood  and  set 
tled — that  I  arn  never  tired,"  observed  Mrs.  Harold ;  she  still 
stood  by  the  parapet,  there  was  no  indication  in  her  tone 
whether  she  agreed  with  the  understanding  or  not. 

"  Do  go,"  urged  Mrs.  Rutherford.  u  You  have  been  shut 
up  with  me  for  six  days  on  those  slow -moving  southern 
trains,  and  you  know  how  you  enjoy  a  walk." 


EAST  ANGELS.  79 

"Not  to-night,  Aunt  Katrina." 

"You  say  that  because  you  think  I  shall  not  like  to  be 
left  alone  in  this  strange  house  on  the  first  evening.  But  I 
shall  not  mind  it  in  the  least;  Celestine  is  here,  and  that 
black  boy." 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  room  within  was  opened 
by  Celestine,  and  there  followed  a  quick,  and  what  seemed 
to  be,  from  the  sound,  a  voluminous  entrance,  and  a  hurried 
step  across  the  floor.  "  My  dearest  darling  Katrina  !"  said 
Mrs.  Carew,  pausing  at  the  long  window  (which  she  filled), 
her  arms  extended  in  anticipative  welcome,  but  her  eyes  not 
yet  certain  which  of  the  three  figures  on  the  piazza  should 
properly  fill  them. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  rose,  with  cordial  if  less  excited  welcome. 
"  Is  that  you,  Betty  ?"  she  said.  And  then  she  was  folded 
in  Betty's  capacious  embrace. 

Hand  in  hand  the  two  ladies  went  within,  to  look  at  each 
other,  they  said.  Mrs.  Harold  and  Winthrop  followed. 

"  Now,  Margaret,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  after  the  first 
greetings  were  over,  "  you  surely  need  feel  no  further  scru 
ples  about  leaving  me ;  Betty  and  I  have  enough  to  say  to 
each  other  for  a  half-hour,  I  am  sure." 

"For  a  half-hour,  Katrina?  For  days  !  weeks!  months!" 
cried  Betty,  with  enthusiasm.  And  she  began  upon  what 
was  evidently  to  be  a  long  series  of  retrospective  questions 
and  replies. 

"Why  not  go  for  a  while,  if,  as  you  say,  you  are  not 
tired?"  said  Winthrop,  in  pursuance  of  his  system  of  show 
ing  always  a  careful  civility  to  Margaret  Harold. 

"It  was  not  I  that  said  it,"  replied  Margaret,  smiling  a 
little.  "  I  will  go  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  she  added,  as 
though  compliance  were,  on  the  whole,  less  trouble  than  a 
second  refusal.  She  took  a  white  shawl  which  was  lying  on 
a  chair,  made  a  veil  for  her  head  of  one  corner,  while  the 
rest  of  its  fleecy  length  fell  over  her  dark  dress.  They  left 
the  room  and  went  down  the  outside  stairway  to  the  street 
!>elow. 

It  was  called  a  street,  and  had  even  a  name — Pachcco ; 
but  in  reality  it  was  the  open  shore. 

"  It  has  such  an  odd  effect  to  me,  all  this  low-lying  coun- 


00  EAST  ANGELS. 

try  on  a  level  with  the  water,"  said  Margaret;  "the  whole 
land  is  like  a  sea -beach,  a  sea -beach  with  trees  growing 
on  it," 

"Do  you  like  it?  or  do  you  think  it  ugly  ?" 
"  I  think  it  very  beautiful — in  its  own  way." 
"  I  will  take  you  to  the  Benito,"  said  Winthrop. 
At  the  end  of  Pacheco  lane  they  passed  under  an  old 
stone  archway  into  the  plaza.  This  little  pleasure-ground 
was  shaded  by  orange -trees,  which  formed  a  thick  grove; 
paths  ran  irregularly  through  the  grove,  and  there  were 
stone  benches  here  and  there.  On  the  north  side  the  gray- 
white  facade  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels  rose  above  the 
trees,  conferring  architectural  dignity  upon  the  town.  The 
main  building  was  low  and  rather  dilapidated,  but  the  front 
was  felt  to  be  impressive,  it  elevated  itself  with  candid  maj 
esty  three  stories  above  the  roof,  quite  undisturbed  by  a 
thinness  of  aspect  in  profile ;  the  first  story  bore  upon  its 
face  an  old  clock  and  sun-dial,  the  second,  which  was  nar 
rower,  was  punctured  by  three  arches,  each  containing  a  bell, 
and  the  third  under  the  apex  had  also  an  aperture,  through 
which  the  small  bell  hanging  there  should  have  swung  itself 
picturesquely  to  and  fro,  far  out  against  the  blue ;  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  however,  none  of  the  bells  were  rung,  they  were 
struck  ignominiously  from  behind  by  a  man  with  a  hammer. 
The  point  of  the  apex  was  surmounted  by  a  broken  globe 
and  a  cross. 

The  uncertain  Gothic  of  St.  Philip  and  St.  James'  came 
next,  much  lower  as  to  height,  much  younger  as  to  age.  But 
the  glory  of  St.  Philip  and  St.  James'  lay  not  in  its  height, 
it  lay  in  the  flying  buttresses  of  which  it  had  no  less  than 
eight,  four  on  each  side.  These  flying  buttresses  were  of 
course  a  great  feature,  they  showed  how  much  imagination 
the  architect  had  had ;  for  they  did  not  support  the  roof, 
rior  anything  else,  they  appeared  indeed  to  have  some  diffi 
culty  in  supporting  themselves,  so  that  it  was  always  more 
or  less  of  a  question  as  to  whether,  in  a  northerly  gale,  they 
might  not  take  to  flying  themselves  —  in  fragments  and  a 
wrong  direction.  So  far,  however,  this  had  not  happened ; 
and  Mrs.  Penelope  Moore,  the  rector's  wife,  had  trained  vines 
over  them  so  thickly  that  they  looked  like  arbors ;  Mrs.  Pe- 


EAST  ANGELS.  81 

nelope,  however,  bad  a  better  name  for  tbem  than  that ;  she 
called  them  "  the  cloisters." 

The  west  side  of  the  plaza  was  occupied  by  the  long  front 
of  the  old  Government  House,  the  residence  of  crown  offi 
cials  during  Spanish  days.  Over  its  low  height,  palmetto- 
trees  lifted  their  ostrich-plumed  foliage  high  in  the  air  from 
the  large  garden  behind.  At  one  end  there  rose  above  the 
roof  a  lookout  tower,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  har 
bor;  here  had  floated  for  two  hundred  years  the  flag  of 
Spain,  here  also  had  hung  the  bell  upon  which  the  watch 
man  had  struck  the  signal  when  the  beacon  on  Patricio  op 
posite  had  flamed  forth  from  its  iron  cage  the  tidings  that  a 
ship  was  in  sight,  a  ship  from  Spain.  But  the  bell  had  long 
been  gone,  and  nothing  floated  from  the  old  staff  now  save 
twice  a  year,  when  on  the  Fourth  of  July  and  Washington's 
Birthday  the  postmaster,  who  used  the  old  Government  House 
for  his  post-office,  unfurled  there,  with  official  patriotism,  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  of  the  United  States. 

As  Winthrop  and  his  companion  on  their  way  across  the 
plaza  came  out  from  the  shade  of  the  orange-trees,  some  one 
spoke  Winthrop's  name.  It  was  Dr.  Kirby,  who  was  enter 
ing  the  grove  by  another  path  which  intersected  theirs.  Gar- 
da  Thome  was  with  him,  and  a  little  behind  them  appeared 
the  dark  countenance  of  Torres.  The  Doctor  stopped  and 
extended  his  hand,  it  was  not  the  Doctor's  custom  to  pass 
his  friends  without  speech.  Winthrop  therefore  stopped 
too ;  and  then,  as  the  Doctor  seemed  to  expect  it,  he  pre 
sented  him  to  Mrs.  Harold.  The  Doctor  paid  his  respects 
in  his  best  manner,  and  introduced  his  "  young  friend,  Miss 
Thome,  of  Gracias-a-Dios."  After  that,  "  Mr.  Adolfo  Torres, 
of  Cuba."  He  had  been  with  Miss  Thome  (who  was  spend 
ing  a  day  or  two  with  his  mother,  Mistress  Kirby)  to  pay  an 
evening  visit  to  Mistress  Carew.  But  they  had  not  found 
Mistress  Carew  at  home. 

"  She  is  with  my  aunt,"  said  Winthrop ;  "  the  two  ladies 
having  a  past  of  forty  years  to  talk  over,  Mrs.  Harold  and  I 
came  out  for  a  stroll." 

"  Ah — a  first  impression,  I  conjecture,"  said  the  Doctor, 
standing,  hat  in  hand,  before  the  northern  lady.  "  You  find 
our  little  town,  I  fear,  rather  old-fashioned." 

0 


82  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  I  like  old-fashioned  things,"  replied  Margaret.  "  I  have 
been  looking  at  something  more  old-fashioned  still — the  sea." 

"If  you  like  to  look  at  the  sea,  you  are  going  to  the  Be- 
nito,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Garda  in  her  soft  tones,  tones 
that  contrasted  with  those  of  Mrs.  Harold,  which  were  equally 
low,  but  much  more  reserved,  and  also  more  clear.  She  came 
forward  and  stood  beside  the  northern  lady,  scanning  her 
face  in  the  moonlight  with  her  beautiful  eyes.  "Please  let 
me  go  with  you,"  she  said,  urgently ;  "  I  want  to  go  so 
much.  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  been  on  the  Benito  by 
moonlight !" 

Mrs.  Harold  smiled  at  her  earnestness ;  and  Garda,  speak 
ing  to  the  Doctor  now,  though  without  turning  her  head, 
said,  "  You  will  come,  won't  you,  Doctor  ?  Do ;  oh,  please 
do." 

The  Doctor  hesitated,  then  sacrificed  himself ;  in  the  cause 
of  the  Thome  family  pedcstrianisrn  seemed  to  be  required  of 
him.  But  Benito  was  long ;  he  made  up  his  mind  that  lie 
would  not  go  one  inch  beyond  a  certain  old  boat  which  he 
remembered,  drawn  up  on  the  sand  at  not  more  than  a  quar 
ter  of  the  distance  to  the  end  of  the  point. 

"  We  will  go  ever  so  far,"  said  Garda,  taking  Mrs.  liar- 
old's  arm ;  "  we  will  go  way  out  to  the  end  !" 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

They  all  walked  on  together  through  the  St.  Luz  quarter, 
Torres  following.  Torres  had  no  idea  where  they  were  go 
ing,  nor  why  the  direction  of  their  walk  had  been  changed. 
But  this  was  a  frequent  condition  of  things  with  him  in 
Gracias,  and,  besides,  it  did  not  trouble  him ;  a  Torres  was 
not  curious,  he  wished  to  go,  therefore  he  went. 

The  little  streets  here  were  not  more  than  eight  feet  wide. 
Garda  kept  her  place  beside  Mrs.  Harold,  and  Dr.  Kirby  fol 
lowed  with  Winthrop ;  Torres,  joining  no  one,  walked  by 
himself,  five  or  six  yards  behind  the  others. 

"  That  young  man  seems  fond  of  acting  as  rear-guard," 
said  Winthrop,  glancing  back  as  they  turned  a  corner,  and 
noting  the  solitary  figure  advancing  stiffly  in  the  moonlight. 

"Garda  is  the  only  one  of  our  present  party  whose  con 
versation  he  can  really  enjoy,"  answered  the  Doctor.  "  When 
he  cannot  converse  with  her,  he  prefers,  I  think,  to  be  by 


EAST  ANGELS.  83 

himself.  At  least  I  have  gathered  that  impression  from  his 
manner." 

"  His  manner  is  his  strong  point,"  said  Winthrop.  "  It's 
very  picturesque." 

"  It  strikes  you  as  picturesque  ?"  said  the  Doctor,  looking 
up  at  him  with  his  quick  bird-glance. 

"  It's  a  little  feudal,  isn't  it  2"  replied  Winthrop.  "  But  I 
am  afraid  you  will  think  my  comparisons  fantastic;  I  have 
treated  you  to  a  good  many  of  them." 

"  Sir,"  responded  the  Doctor,  courteously  waiving  the  ques 
tion  of  accuracy,  "  what  I  notice  is  your  command  of  lan 
guage.  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me  to  say  feudal, 
I  admire  your  affluence." 

"  And  I  am  ashamed  of  it,"  said  Winthrop,  "  I  am  ashamed 
of  myself  for  staring  about  and  applying  adjectives  in  this 
way  to  the  people  and  scenery  here,  as  though  it  were  a  for 
eign  country ;  it  ought  to  be  as  much  a  part  of  me,  and  I  of 
it,  as  though  it  were  Massachusetts  Bay." 

But  this  view  of  the  subject  was  beyond  the  Doctor's 
comprehension  ;  to  him  the  difference  between  New  Eng 
land  and  the  South  was  as  wide,  whether  considered  geo 
graphically,  psychologically,  or  historically,  as  that  between 
the  South  and  Japan.  Nothing  could  have  made  him,  Regi 
nald  Kirby,  feel  a  sympathetic  ownership  in  Massachusetts 
Bay,  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  this  Mr.  Evert  Winthrop 
should  be  claiming  proprietorship  in  a  distinctively  Spanish 
and  Carolinian  shore.  The  singular  views  of  these  north 
erners  were  apparently  endless !  But  in  this  case,  at  least, 
the  views  could  do  no  harm,  Florida  would  remain  Florida, 
in  spite  of  northern  hallucinations. 

Beyond  the  low  stone  houses  of  St.  Luz,  they  crossed  a 
common,  and  gained  the  open  shore.  The  coast  here  bent 
sharply  to  the  east,  and  went  out  to  sea  in  a  long  point,  the 
beach  which  fringed  this  point  was  called  the  Benito ;  the 
party  of  strollers  walked  down  the  Benito's  firm  white  floor, 
with  the  sea  breaking  in  little  lapping  wavelets  at  its  edge, 
and  the  moonlight  flooding  land  and  water  with  its  wonder 
ful  radiance.  The  beach  was  forty  feet  broad ;  Winthrop 
and  the  Doctor  joined  the  ladies.  But  Garda  kept  her  place 
beside  Mrs.  Harold,  and  talked  only  to  her,  she  seemed  to  be 


84  EAST  ANGELS. 

fascinated  by  all  the  northern  lady  said.  Winthrop  could 
not  fail  to  see  that  her  interest  in  this  new  companion  was 
of  the  same  sort  as  that  which  she  had  originally  shown 
regarding  himself — curiosity,  apparently  ;  and  that  Margaret 
Harold  excited  the  feeling  in  a  stronger  degree  than  he  had 
done.  Meanwhile  it  amused  him  to  see  how  completely  this 
Florida  girl  did  as  she  pleased.  It  pleased  her  now  to  for 
get  him  entirely ;  but  he  was  not  the  only  one,  she  forgot 
the  Doctor  also,  and  the  patient  lonely  Torres  behind. 

It  may  as  well  be  mentioned  here  that  the  Doctor  went  as 
far  as  the  old  boat  he  remembered.  And  that  then  he  went 
farther  ;  he  went  to  the  end  of  the  point,  a  mile  away. 

"  Surely  you  have  not  been  gone  half  an  hour?"  said  Mrs. 
Carew,  as  Margaret  and  Winthrop  re-entered  the  eyrie's  little 
drawing-room. 

"  Two  hours,  nearly,"  answered  Winthrop,  looking  at  his 
watch. 

"  Betty  is  so  demonstrative,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford  to  her 
niece,  in  a  plaintive  tone,  when  they  were  left  alone.  "I 
verily  believe  she  has  kissed  me  during  this  one  call  at  least 
twenty  times.  She  always  had  the  best  heart  in  the  world — 
poor  Betty !" 

"  She  is  very  stout,  isn't  she?"  she  resumed,  after  a  pause. 
"  Her  figure  is  all  gone,  she's  like  a  meal-sack  with  a  string 
tied  round  it." 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  mirror,  which  gave  back  the  re 
flection  of  her  own  shapely  person  in  its  rich,  perfectly  fit 
ting  attire.  "And  how  she  was  dressed ! — did  you  notice  j 
That  old-fashioned  glace  silk  that  shines,  made  with  gathers, 
and  a  hem — I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  a  hem  before." 

She  spoke  with  much  seriousness,  her  eyes  were  slowly 
measuring  the  gulf  that  separated  this  friend  of  her  youth 
from  herself.  After  a  while  these  eyes  moved  up  to  the  re 
flection  in  the  mirror  of  her  own  silver-gray  locks,  arranged 
in  their  graceful  waves  above  her  white  forehead. 

"  She  has  the  old-time  ideas,  poor  Betty !"  she  murmured. 
Then,  gravely  and  impartially,  as  one  who  chronicles  a  past 
historical  epoch  :  "  She  still  colors  her  hair!" 


EAST  ANGELS.  85 


CHAPTER  V. 

MRS.  CAREW'S  candles,  in  the  old  candelabra  hung  with 
glass  prisms,  were  all  lighted ;  in  addition,  her  astral  lamp 
was  shining  on  a  table  in  the  back  drawing-room,  and  near 
this  lamp  she  was  standing. 

The  two  rooms  were  large,  square,  separated  by  folding- 
doors  which  were  held  open  by  giant  sea-shells,  placed  upon 
the  carpet  as  weights.  Wide  doors  led  also  from  each  room 
into  the  broad  hall,  which  was  lighted  by  a  hanging  lamp  in 
a  pictured  porcelain  shade.  From  the  back  drawing-room  a 
second  door  led  into  the  dining-room  behind,  which  was 
also  entered  by  a  broader  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

"  Now,  Pompey,"  said  the  mistress  of  the  house,  "  are  you 
quite  sure  you  understand  ?  Tell  me  what  it  is  you  are  to 
do." 

Pompey,  a  small,  yellow-skinned  negro,  whose  large,  orb- 
like,  heavily  wrinkled  eyelids  (underneath  which  but  a  nar 
row  line  of  eye  appeared)  were  the  most  prominent  features 
of  his  flat  face,  replied,  solemnly  :  "  Wen  eberyting's  ready, 
I  fuss  slips  inter  de  hall,  steppen  softly,  an'  shets  dish  yer 
do',  de  back  parlo'  do'  inter  de  hall.  I  nex'  announces  sup- 
pah  at  de  from?  parlo'  do'.  Den,  wiles  de  compahny's  pars 
ing  inter  de  hall,  I  hurries  roun'  tru  dish  yer  do' — de  do' 
from  de  cftntV-room — gits  out  dat  ar  lamp  mighty  quick,  an' 
has  it  onter  de  middle  ob  de  suppah  table  befo'  de/im  head 
ob  de  compahny  appcahs  at  de  hall  do'.  An'  I  follers  de 
same  course  o&wersed  w'en  de  compahny  retiahs." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Carew.     "  Now  mind  you  do  it." 

Hearing  the  gate-latch  fall,  she  hurried  into  the  front  room 
to  be  ready  to  receive  her  dearest  Katrina.  But  it  was  only 
Mrs.  Thome,  who,  with  Garda,  entered  without  knocking ; 
the  evening  was  warm  and  the  hall  door  stood  open,  the 
light  from  within  shining  across  the  broad  piazza,  and  down 
the  rose-bordered  path  to  the  gate.  Mrs.  Carew  herself  ac 
companied  her  friends  np-stairs,  and  stood  talking  while  they 


86  EAST  ANGELS. 

laid  aside  their  light  wraps ;  these  guests  were  to  spend  the 
night,  having  come  up  from  East  Angels  in  their  boat,  old 
Pablo  rowing. 

"  We  shall  be  ten,"  said  their  hostess ;  "  a  good  number, 
don't  you  think  so?  I  shall  have  whist,  of  course,  later — 
whist  and  conversation."  Here  Mrs.  Thome,  having  taken 
from  her  basket  a  small  package,  brought  forth  from  their 
careful  wrappings  two  pairs  of  kid  gloves,  one  white,  the  oth 
er  lavender ;  they  did  not  appear  to  be  new. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  wear  gloves  ?"  said  Mrs.  Carcw,  in 
terrupting  herself  in  her  surprise.  "  It's  only  a  small  tea- 
party." 

"No  entertainment  given  by  you,  dear  friend,  can  be  called 
small ;  it  is  not  a  question  of  numbers,  but  of  scope,  and 
your  scope  is  always  of  the  largest,"  replied  the  mistress  of 
East  Angels,  beginning  to  cover  her  small  fingers  with  the  in 
signia  of  ceremony.  "  Our  only  thought  was  to  do  you  hon 
or,  we  are  very  glad  to  have  this  little  opportunity." 

Garda  put  her  gloves  in  her  pocket.  She  had  the  white 
ones. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Thome,  admonishingly. 

"  But,  mamma,  I  don't  want  to  wear  them ;  I  don't  like 
them." 

"  We  are  obliged,  in  this  world  at  least,  my  child,  to  wear 
many  things,  gloves  included,  which  we  do  not  especially 
like,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  with  the  air  of  expecting  to  wear 
only  the  choicest  garb  (gloves  included)  in  the  next.  "Do 
not  interfere  with  my  plan  for  doing  honor  to  our  dear 
friend." 

Garda,  with  a  grimace,  took  out  the  gloves  and  put  them 
on,  while  the  dear  friend  looked  on  with  much  interest. 
There  was  not  a  trace  of  jealousy  in  her  glance,  a  Gwinnct, 
in  truth,  could  not  have  cause  for  jealousy ;  she  was  real 
ly  admiring  the  little  New  England  woman's  inspiration. 
"  Gloves  have  never  been  worn  here  at  small  tea-parties,"  she 
said  to  Evert  Winthrop  afterwards.  "But  she  thought  that 
your  aunt  and  Mrs.  Harold,  coming  as  they  do  from  New 
York,  would  have  them,  and  so  she  unearthed  those  two  old 
pairs.  There  is  really  no  limit  to  that  woman's  energy ;  I 
verily  believe  that  if  an  East  Indian  prince  should  bo  wrecked 


EAST  ANGELS.  87 

off  Gracias,  she  would  find  an  elephant  to  receive  him  'with ! 
Her  courage  is  inexhaustible,  and  if  she  had  any  money  at 
all,  she'd  move  the  world — like  Archimedes,  wasn't  it,  who 
only  wanted  a  point  for  his  lever?  To  be  sure,  that  is  the 
great  thing — the  point,  and  Mr.  Carew  used  always  to  say 
that  I  forgot  mine.  I  told  him  that  he  could  pick  them  up 
and  put  them  in  himself  if  he  missed  them  so  much,  but  he 
said  that  anybody  could  put  them  in,  but  that  it  took  a  real 
genius  to  leave  them  out,  as  I  did."  Here  the  good  lady 
laughed  heartily.  "  It  was  only  his  joking  way,  of  course," 
she  added;  "you  see,  Mr.  Carew  was  a  lawyer." 

The  gloves  having  been  duly  put  on,  the  three  ladies  de 
scended  to  the  front  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Thome  seated 
herself  in  an  attitude  which  might  have  been  described  as 
suggesting  a  cultured  expectation.  Her  little  figure  re 
mained  erect,  not  touching  the  back  of  her  chair ;  her  hands, 
endued  with  the  gloves,  were  folded  lightly  ;  her  countenance 
expressed  the  highest  intelligence,  chastened  by  the  memory 
of  the  many  trials  through  which  she  had  passed;  this,  at 
least,  was  what  she  intended  it  to  express. 

The  fall  of  the  gate-latch  was  now  heard  again. 

"  Had  we  not  better  be  standing?"  suggested  their  hostess, 
in  a  hurried  whisper.  It  was  so  many  years  since  she  had 
opened  her  old  house  for  what  she  called  "  evening  company  " 
that  she  felt  fluttered  and  uncertain — embarrassed,  as  imagi 
native  people  always  are,  by  the  number  of  things  that  oc 
curred  to  her,  things  she  might  do. 

"  I  think  not,  dear  friend,"  answered  Mrs.  Thorne,  with  de 
cision.  "We  are  too  few,  it  would  have,  I  fear,  the  air  of  a 
tableau." 

Mrs.  Thorne  was  above  flutter,  a  whisper  she  scorned.  As 
the  approaching  footsteps  drew  nearer,  the  listening  silence 
in  the  drawing-room,  whose  long  windows  stood  open,  be 
came  in  her  opinion  far  too  apparent ;  she  coughed,  turned 
to  her  daughter,  and,  in  her  clear  little  voice,  remarked,  "  I 
have  always  esteemed  the  pearl  the  most  beautiful  of  pre 
cious  stones.  The  diamond  has  more  brilliancy,  the  ruby  a 
richer  glow,  but  the  pearl — "  Here  the  steps,  entering  the 
hall  without  ceremony,  showed  that  the  new-comers  were  not 
the  expected  northern  guests,  since  they,  of  course,  would 


88  EAST  ANGELS. 

have  gone  through  the  form  of  raising  the  knocker  upon  the 
open  door.  It  was  Dr.  Kirby  who  entered,  followed  by  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Moore. 

The  Doctor  offered  his  salutations  in  his  usual  ceremoni 
ous  fashion.  He  made  a  compact  little  bow,  and  a  formal 
compliment,  over  the  hand  of  each  of  the  ladies  in  turn ;  he 
was  dressed  in  black,  but  still  looked  like  a  canary-bird — a 
canary-bird  in  mourning. 

After  some  minutes,  again  came  the  sound  of  the  gate- 
latch.  Mrs.  Carew,  who  was  talking,  stopped  short,  even 
Dr.  Kirby's  attention  flew  to  the  gravel-path ;  there  was  dan 
ger  of  another  pause.  But  bravely  Mrs.  Thome  came  to  the 
rescue  a  second  time.  "  The  emerald,"  she  observed,  to  the 
unlistcning  Kirby,  "  is  clear,  and  even  one  may  say  translu 
cent.  And  how  profound  it  is ! — how  deep  the  mysterious 
green  which — "  The  new-comers  had  crossed  the  piazza, 
lifted  the  knocker,  and  had  then,  without  waiting  for  Pom- 
pey's  appearance,  entered  the  hall;  this  showed  acquaint 
ance,  though  not  the  familiar  intimacy  of  the  first  guests;  it 
proved  to  be  Manuel  Ruiz,  and  with  him  Adolf o  Torres. 

But  now  came  the  sound  of  wheels,  Mrs.  Carew  listened 
eagerly.  "A  carriage !"  she  murmured,  turning  to  the  Doc 
tor,  as  the  sound  stopped  before  her  house.  He  nodded  and 
twirled  his  thumbs.  This  time  there  could  be  no  doubt,  the 
strangers  were  coming  up  the  path. 

But  silence  had  again  attacked  the  little  group,  and  Mrs. 
Thorne,  feeling  that  graceful  conversation  was  now  more 
than  ever  imperative,  if  the  strangers  were  to  be  impressed 
with  the  ease  and  distinction  of  Gracias  society,  was  again 
about  to  speak,  when  Garda,  with  a  merry  gleam  in  her  eyes, 
exclaimed,  with  sudden  enthusiasm,  to  Manuel,  "  Sapphires, 
oh,  beautiful  sapphires,  how  I  wish  I  had  a  tiara  of  them !" 
Manuel,  though  somewhat  surprised  by  the  unexpectedness 
of  the  topic,  gallantly  answered  that  she  was  worthy  to  have 
her  floors  paved  with  them  if  she  should  wish  it ;  nay,  that 
he  himself  would  become  a  sapphire  for  such  a  purpose. 
And  then  by  the  formal  knock  and  the  delay,  all  felt  that 
the  strangers  were  at  last  within  their  gates.  A  few  min 
utes  later  they  entered  the  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Rutherford, 
Margaret  Harold,  and  Evert  Winthrop.  Mrs.  Thome's  eyes 


EAST  ANGELS.  89 

turned  towards  her  daughter  with  one  quick  single  beam  of 
triumph  :  the  ladies  wove  gloves. 

Mrs.  Carew  seated  herself  beside  her  dearest  Katrina,  and 
Dr.  Kirby  bore  them  company;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  and 
Mrs.  Thome  gave  their  attention  to  Mrs.  Harold.  Evert 
Winthrop  took  a  seat  which  had  the  air  of  being  near 
enough  to  the  first  group  for  conversational  purposes,  but 
which  was  in  reality  a  little  apart.  Garda  and  Manuel  were 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  with  Torres  standing  near 
them ;  Manuel  was  talking,  but  Garda  gave  him  a  divided 
attention,  she  was  looking  at  Evert  Winthrop.  At  length 
she  rose  and  went  across  to  his  chair. 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  ride  to-day?"  she  asked,  stand 
ing  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  before  him,  her  hands 
clasped  and  hanging. 

"  Yes ;  I  went  down  the  King's  Road,"  he  answered,  ris 
ing.  "  I  like  a  *  King's  Road ;'  we  have  no  King's  Roads  at 
the  North." 

"Why  not?"  said  Garda. 

"  We  abolished  kings  more  completely  than  you  did  per 
haps;  in  1776." 

"  What  happened  then  ?     Something  at  the  North  ?" 

"Oh,  a  small  matter,  quite  unimportant;  it  didn't  include 
Gracias-a-Dios." 

"  It  might  have,  I  don't  pretend  to  know  the  history  of 
Gracias-a-Dios,"  replied  Garda,  rather  loftily;  "all  I  know  is 
the  history  of  my  own  family.  In  1776  my  grandmother 
Beatriz  was  five  years  old,  and  even  then,  they  say,  water 
could  run  under  her  insteps." 

"Why  did  they  keep  the  poor  child  in  such  wet  places? 
It  must  have  been  very  unhealthy.  Won't  you  have  this 
chair  ?" 

"I'm  so  tired  of  chairs." 

"  Have  you  been  asleep  in  the  hammock  all  the  afternoon?" 

"Yes,"  she  confessed.  "But  I  hope  L don't  show  it  so 
plainly?  It  isn't  polite  to  look  sleepy  at  a  party." 

"  Let  us  walk  up  and  down  for  a  while :  that  will  waken 
you,"  he  said,  offering  his  arm. 

"Do  people  walk  up  and  down  when  the  party  is  such  a 
small  one?  Is  that  a  northern  custom?" 


90  EAST  ANGELS. 

"I  am  a  northerner  certainly;  and  it's  my  custom,"  lie  an 
swered.  As  they  entered  the  back  drawing-room,  "  I  did  not 
mean  that  you  looked  sleepy,"  he  added,  "  but  the  contrary  ; 
the  walking  will  be  of  use  as  a  sedative." 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  I  shall  not  do  anything  out  of 
the  way;  don't  you  see  that  I  have  on  white  gloves?"  And 
she  extended  her  hands  for  his  inspection.  "They  are  not 
mine,  as  you  may  well  imagine,  I  never  had  a  pair  of  white 
gloves  in  my  life;  they  are  mamma's,  and  ever  so  many 
years  old,  she  wore  them  when  she  was  married." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  her ;  she  must  have  looked 
like  a  little  blossom  of  the  May." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Garda,  "  I  am  sure  that  mamma  must 
have  been  very  pretty  indeed  when  she  was  young."  She 
spoke  with  seriousness,  Winthrop  imagined  that  she  had 
given  the  subject  much  consideration.  They  reached  the 
end  of  the  second  room,  and  turned  to  come  back. 

"  I  should  never  have  asked  the  senorita  to  do  that,"  said 
Torres  in  Spanish  to  Manuel. 

"  Very  likely  not ;  but  do  at  least  sit  down,  people  don't 
stand  up  against  the  wall  all  the  time  at  tea-parties,  like 
wooden  soldiers." 

"It  is  my  method,"  replied  Torres;  "I  have  always  my 
own  method  about  everything." 

"  Change  it,  then  ;  at  least  for  this  evening,"  suggested  his 
New  World  companion. 

"  If  they  do  not,  as  you  say,  stand,  it  appears  that  they 
walk.  And  continue  to  walk,"  remarked  the  Cuban,  after  a 
moment,  his  eyes  still  upon  Garda  and  Winthrop. 

"Of  course  they  do,  if  they  wish  to,"  replied  Manuel,  who 
was  at  heart  as  much  surprised  by  Winthrop's  proceeding 
as  Torres  had  been;  but,  if  surprised,  quick  also  to  seize  and 
appropriate  to  his  own  use  any  advantages  which  new  codes 
of  manners  might  offer.  "But  you  cannot  walk  all  alone 
— don't  try  that*  Take  something  and  look  at  it,  if  you 
won't  sit  down ;  a  book ;  daguerreotypes.  There's  a  Chi 
nese  'puzzle ;  take  that." 

Thus  adjured,  Torres  stepped  forward,  took  the  puzzlo 
from  a  table,  and  returned  with  it  to  his  place.  Here  he 
stood  still  again,  holding  his  prize  solemnly. 


EAST  ANGELS.  91 

"  Play  with  it," •said  Manuel ;  "  I  never  saw  such  a  fellow  ! 
Move  the  rings  up  and  down." 

"I  took  it  because  you  wished  me  to  do  so,"  replied  the 
Cuban,  with  dignity.  "But  to  play  with  it  is  impossible; 
why  should  I  play  with  an  ivory  toy? — I  am  not  a  child." 

Here  the  gray  head  of  Pompey  appeared  at  the  front 
drawing-room  door.  The  old  servant  waited  respectfully 
until  he  had  caught  his  mistress's  eye ;  he  then  made  a  low 
bow,  with  his  hands  folded  before  him — "  Miss  C'roo  am 
serbed." 

Dr.  Kirby  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Rutherford,  Mr.  Moore 
offered  his  to  Mrs.  Harold;  Mrs.  Carew  waved  Winthrop  to 
wards  Mrs.  Thome,  while  she  herself  took  the  arm  of  Manuel 
Ruiz.  Garda  was  left  to  Torres,  who,  thus  unexpectedly  made 
happy,  accompanied  her  into  the  hall,  still  bearing  his  puzzle. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  carrying?"  she  asked,  laugh 
ing. 

"  It  is  a  toy  of  ivory  which  Manuel  insisted  that  I  should 
take.  With  your  permission  I  will  now  lay  it  aside."  And 
he  deposited  it  carefully  upon  a  chair. 

The  little  procession  now  came  to  a  pause,  Mrs.  Carcw 
having  asked  her  dearest  Katrinn  to  look  at  a  portrait  upon 
the  wall.  "  It  was  taken  the  year  after  my  marriage,"  she 
explained,  watching  for  the  increased  glow  through  the  din 
ing-room  door  which  should  proclaim  to  her  anxious  eyes 
the  arrival  of  the  astral  lamp  in  its  destined  place. 

"  I  do  not  need  a  portrait,  Betty ;  I  have  one  in  my  mem 
ory,"  replied  Mrs.  Rutherford,  graciously.  She  could  not 
see  the  picture  without  her  glasses,  but  she  gazed  at  the  gilt 
frame  with  an  interested  air,  looking  at  it  with  her  head  now 
n,  little  on  one  side,  now  on  the  other,  as  if  to  get  the  right 
light. 

"I  have  never  considered  this  portrait  a  faithful  repre 
sentation  of  our  friend,"  observed  Dr.  Kirby.  He  could  not 
see  even  the  frame,  but  he  surveyed  the  wall  with  disappro 
bation.  "  It  quite  fails  to  give  her  vivacity,  which  is  so 
characteristic  a  feature.  But  what  painter's  brush,  what 
limner's  art,  can  fix  upon  canvas  that  delicate,  that,  I  may 
say,  intangible  charm  which  belongs  to  the  fairer  portion  of 
our  humanity?  It  is,  and  must  always  be,  a  hopeless  task." 


92  EAST  ANGELS. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  admired  the  Doctor's,  way  of  expressing 
himself.  It  was  the  fine  -old  style.  She  herself  had  kept 
pace  with  the  new,  as  she  kept  pace  with  everything;  but 
the  old  style  was  more  stately,  and  she  had  always  preferred 
it;  for  one  thing,  she  understood  it  better.  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford  liked  conversations  to  have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and 
an  end ;  the  Doctor's  conversations,  and  even  his  sentences, 
had  all  three. 

The  increased  glow  now  showed  itself  through  the  distant 
door,  and  Mrs.  Carew  moved  on  ;  the  little  company  passed 
down  the  hall  and  into  the  dining-room,  where  stood  a 
bountifully  decked  table  with  the  astral  lamp  radiant  in  the 
centre,  and  Pompey,  so  dignified  under  his  responsibilities 
that  he  actually  looked  tall,  in  attendance.  It  was  an  old- 
fashioned  repast;  they  were  all  seated  round  the  table  as 
though  it  had  been  a  dinner.  But  the  hostess  did  not  place 
them  in  the  order  in  which  they  had  proceeded  through 
the  hall ;  having  paid  what  she  considered  due  acknowledg 
ment  to  etiquette,  she  now  arranged  them  for  the  long  repast 
in  the  way  which  she  thought  would  please  them  best,  which 
is  quite  another  matter.  Winthrop  found  himself  between 
Garda  and  Mrs.  Harold  ;  Mrs.  Harold  had  upon  her  left  hand 
Manuel  Ruiz,  and  Garda  upon  her  right  the  happy  Torres, 
who,  however,  in  spite  of  happiness,  looked  more  rigid  and 
solemn  than  ever  as  the  soft  horizontal  light  of  the  lamp, 
shining  above  the  central  plum-cake,  illumined  his  dark  face. 

"You  remember,  of  course,  that  he  does  not  speak  Eng 
lish,"  Garda  said  to  Winthrop.  She  was  alluding  to  her 
right-hand  neighbor. 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  intend  to  speak  Spanish  to 
him  ?"  said  Winthrop.  "  He  has  quite  enough  as  it  is  in 
being  next  you;  you  should  not  give  too  much." 

"  I  like  generosity." 

"That  wouldn't  be  generosity,  but  squandering;  you 
shouldn't  give  at  random." 

"  Poor  Adolfo  isn't  at  random !  But  I  believe  you  are 
trying  to  instruct  me?"  she  said,  surveying  him  frankly. 

"  Would  it  displease  you  if  I  were  ?" 

Garda  paused,  as  if  considering  the  point.  "  You  might 
try  it,"  she  answered.  "  It  would  at  least  be  new,  and  I 


EAST  ANGELS.  98 

generally  like  new  things.  That  is  the  reason,  you  know, 
that  I  liked  you ;  you  were  new." 

Manuel,  meanwhile,  was  bringing  forward  his  finest  pow 
ers  for  the  entertainment  of  Mrs.  Harold,  by  whose  side  he 
had  been  placed ;  and  if  he  talked  in  a  somewhat  more 
decorated  strain  than  was  prevalent  in  the  colder  circles  from 
which  she  had  come,  it  was  carried  off  easily  by  his  youth, 
his  handsome  face,  his  animated  manner.  Winthrop  over 
heard  occasionally  his  fervid  little  speeches,  he  did  not  ad 
mire  them.  But  it  was  only  occasionally,  for  he  himself 
was  fully  occupied,  Garda  talked  to  him,  or  listened  to  him, 
during  the  entire  time  they  remained  at  the  table.  And 
this  was  over  two  hours;  there  were  many  delicious  things 
to  be  eaten,  or  at  least  tasted,  for  Mrs.  Carew's  Cynthy,  hav 
ing  been  one  of  the  good  cooks  of  the  old  days  before  the 
war,  was  still  in  possession  of  a  remnant  of  her  former  skill. 
As  these  "  old  days  "  lay  but  six  years  back,  it  would  seem 
that  Cynthy  must  have  worked  hard  to  forget  all  but  a  rem 
nant,  in  so  short  a  time.  She  had,  however,  succeeded  per 
fectly,  and  only  upon  great  occasions,  like  the  present,  would 
she  condescend  to  revert  to  her  ancient  knowledge,  as  a  favor 
to  "Miss  Betty,"  whose  fortunes  were  so  sadly  fallen.  Cyn 
thy  and  Pompey  had  accompanied  their  young  mistress  from 
her  Georgia  home  to  the  new  one  in  Florida  many  years  be 
fore  ;  they  now  remained  with  her  for  the  excellent  reason 
that,  owing  to  age  and  infirmities,  it  would  have  been  im 
possible  for  them  to  have  found  a  home  or  employment  else 
where.  This,  however,  they  never  acknowledged,  they  spoke 
of  their  fidelity  as  a  weakness  of  which  they  were  rather 
ashamed ;  but  "  dat  poor  Miss  Betty,  she  nebber  get  'long 
widout  us  nohow,  Pomp,  dat's  a  fac'."  In  reality,  they 
adored  Miss  Betty,  and  would  have  pined  and  died  in  a 
month  if  taken  from  her  kindly,  indulgent  rule,  and  from  the 
old  Carew  kitchen,  with  its  disorder  and  comfort,  where  they 
had  reigned  so  many  years. 

The  superior  table  manners  of  Mrs.  Thome  were  never 
more  apparent  than  upon  this  occasion.  In  this  lady's  opin 
ion,  when  one  was  required  to  turn  from  intellectual  occupa 
tions  to  the  grosser  employment  of  supplying  nourishment 
to  the  body,  one  could  at  least  endeavor  to  ethercalize  it  as 


94  EAST  ANGELS. 

much  as  possible  by  confining  one's  self  to  that  refined  im 
plement,  the  fork.  In  accordance  with  this  theory,  she 
scarcely  touched  her  knife;  once,  under  protest  as  it  were, 
she  delicately  divided  with  its  aid  the  wing  of  a  wild-duck, 
but  that  was  all.  She  encountered  difficulties;  slices  of  cold 
tongue  betrayed  a  remarkable  tenacity  of  fibre,  portions  of 
broiled  chicken  manifested  a  very  embarrassing  slipperiness 
under  the  silver  tines,  as  she  tried  to  divide  them  or  roll 
them  up.  But  she  persevered  in  her  efforts  to  the  end,  and 
succeeded,  though  her  small  fingers  became  deeply  dented 
by  the  force  she  was  obliged  to  exert. 

When  the  meal  was  at  length  over,  Mrs.  Carew,  with  a 
bow  to  Mrs.  Rutherford  as  her  most  distinguished  guest, 
rose.  Garda  called  Winthrop's  attention,  as  they  also  rose, 
to  the  fact  that  she  had  scarcely  spoken  six  sentences  of 
Spanish  during  its  entire  continuance.  "  See  how  well  I 
have  obeyed  you,"  she  said. 

"  Surely  I  did  not  venture  a  command  ?" 

"I  think  you  did.  At  least  you  came  as  near  it  as  you 
dared,  and  you  are  very  daring." 

"I?  Never  in  the  world!  You  are  quite  mistaken,  Miss 
Thome,  I  am  the  exact  opposite  of  that,"  he  answered, 
laughing. 

"But  I  should  think  you  would  like  me  to  at  least  believe 
you  so,"  responded  Garda,  looking  at  him  with  wonder. 

" Believe  me  to  be  daring?  We  probably  use  the  word  in 
a  different  sense;  it  isn't  a  word  I  am  fond  of,  I  confess  ;  but 
I  don't  think  you  would  find  me  lacking  in  any  emergency." 

"  Oh,  emergencies  ! — they  never  come  to  Gracias.  Now 
please  don't  say,  like  the  dear  old  Doctor, '  May  they  never 
come  to  you,  my  dearest  child  !'  " 

"  I  will  say,  then — may  I  be  present  when  they  do." 

"But  you  won't  be,"  responded  Garda,  her  tone  suddenly 
changing;  "you  will  go  away,  Mrs.  Harold  will  go  away, 
everybody  will  go  away,  and  we  shall  be  left  alone  again, 
mamma  and  I,  on  this  old  shore !" 

"But  you  have  seemed  to  me  very  happy  here  on  this 
old  shore,"  said  Winthrop,  in  a  tone  which  was  indulgent 
as  well  as  comforting — she  had  looked  so  young,  so  like  a 
child,  as  she  made  her  complaint. 


EAST  ANGELS.  95 

"  So  I  have  been — until  now.  But  now  that  I  have  seen 
you,  now  that  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Harold,  I — I  don't  know." 
She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

This  little  conversation  had  gone  on  while  they  were  all 
returning  through  the  hall  to  the  front  drawing-room. 
Manuel,  however,  who  was  with  Mrs.  Harold,  had  a  plan  of 
his  own,  he  turned  boldly  aside  towards  the  closed  door  of 
the  back  drawing-room,  his  intention  being  to  establish  him 
self  with  the  charming  northern  lady  upon  a  certain  sofa 
which  he  remembered  at  the  extreme  end  of  that  broad 
apartment;  if  isolation  were  a  northern  fashion,  he  would 
be  isolated  too.  But  Mrs.  Carew  (with  the  returning  lamp 
on  her  mind)  saw  his  hand  upon  the  knob,  and  summoned 
him  in  haste :  "  Mr.  Ruiz  !  Mr.  Ruiz  !" 

When  he  obeyed  her  call,  she  begged  him  fervently  to 
promise  to  sing  for  them  immediately  that  "  sweet  little  air" 
which  it  seemed  was  "  such  a  favorite  "  of  hers,  though  when 
he  asked  her  to  define  it  more  clearly,  she  was  unable  to  re 
call  its  name,  the  words,  or  any  characteristic  by  which  he 
could  identify  it;  however,  by  this  effort  of  the  imagina 
tion  the  door  of  the  back  drawing-room  was  kept  closed, 
and  all  her  guests  were  piloted  safely  to  the  front  room  by 
the  way  they  had  come.  The  lamp  was  in  position,  only 
the  retreating  legs  of  Pompey  were  visible  through  the  din 
ing-room  door;  the  mistress  of  the  house,  unused  to  strate 
gy,  sank  into  a  chair,  and  furtively  passed  her  handkerchief 
across  her  brow. 

Manuel  was  already  tuning  the  guitar. 

"  Does  he  like  to  sing  so  soon  after — after  tea  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Rutherford. 

But  the  handsome  youth  could  sing  as  well  at  one  time  as 
another.  He  looked  about  him,  found  a  low  ottoman  and 
drew  it  towards  the  sofa  where  Mrs.  Harold  was  sitting,  thus 
placing  himself  as  nearly  as  possible  at  her  feet;  then  he 
struck  a  chord  or  two,  and  began.  He  had  a  tenor  voice 
(as  Winthrop  would  have  said,  "of  course") ;  and  the  voice 
had  much  sweetness.  He  sang  his  little  love  song  admi 
rably. 

Garda  was  standing  near  one  -of  the  windows  with  Win 
throp.  When  the  song  was  ended,  "  How  old  is  Mrs.  liar- 


96  EAST  ANGELS. 

old?"  she  asked,  abruptly ;  that  is,  abruptly  as  regarded  sub 
ject,  her  voice  itself  had  no  abrupt  tones. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Winthrop  answered. 

"  Isn't  she  your  cousin  ?" 

"  She  is  my  aunt's  niece  by  marriage ;  Mr.  Rutherford 
was  her  uncle." 

"But  if  you  have  always  known  her,  you  must  know  how 
old  she  is." 

"  I  have  not  always  known  her,  and  I  don't  know  ;  I  sup 
pose  her  to  be  about  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight." 

"  She  is  over  thirty,"  said  Garda,  with  decision.  "  Do  you 
think  her  handsome  ?" 

"  She  is  considered  handsome." 

"  But  do  you  think  her  so  ?" 

"That  is  rather  a  close  question,  isn't  it?" 

"  It  doesn't  seem  so  to  me ;  people  are  handsome  or  not 
handsome,  it's  fact — not  opinion.  And  what  I  wanted  to  see 
was  whether  you  had  any  eye  for  beauty,  that  was  all.  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  for  instance,  is  handsome,  Mrs.  Carew  is  not. 
Manuel  is  handsome,  Adolfo  Torres  is  not." 

"And  Miss  Thome?" 

"  She  hopes  she  is,  but  she  isn't  sure,"  replied  the  girl, 
laughing;  "  it  isn't  *  sure'  to  be  thought  so  by  the  four  per 
sons  about  here.  And  she  can't  find  out  from  the  only 
stranger  she  knows,  because  he  hasn't  a  particle  of  expression 
in  his  face ;  it's  most  unfortunate." 

"  For  him — yes.     It's  because  he's  so  old,  you  know." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  thirty-five." 

"  You  look  younger  than  that,"  said  Garda,  after  scanning 
him  for  a  moment. 

"  It's  my  northern  temperament,  that  keeps  me  young  and 
handsome." 

"Oh,  you're  not  handsome;  but  in  a  man  it's  of  little  con 
sequence,"  she  added. 

"  Very  little.  Or  in  a  woman  either.  Don't  we  all  know 
that  beauty  fades  as  the  leaf?" 

"  The  leaf  fades  when  it  has  had  all  there  was  of  its  life, 
it  doesn't  fade  before.  That  is  what  I  mean  to  do,  have  all 
there  is  of  my  life,  I  have  told  mamma  so.  I  said  to  mamma 


EAST  ANGELS.  97 

more  than  a  year  ago, '  Mamma,  what  are  our  pleasures  ?  Let 
us  see  if  we  can't  get  some  more;'  and  mamma  answered, 
1  Edgarda,  pleasures  are  generally  wrong.'  But  I  don't  agree 
with  mamma,  I  don't  think  them  wrong;  and  I  intend  to 
take  mine  wherever  I  can  find  them,  in  fact,  I  do  so  now." 

"  And  do  you  find  many  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Garda,  confidently.  "  There  are  our 
oranges,  which  are  excellent;  and  Carlos  Mateo,  who  is  so 
amusing ;  and  the  lovely  breeze  we  have  sometimes ;  and  the 
hammock  where  I  lie  and  plan  out  all  the  things  I  should 
like  to  have — the  softest  silks,  laces,  nothing  coarse  or  com 
mon  to  touch  me ;  plenty  of  roses  in  all  the  rooms  and  the 
garden  full  of  sweet-bay,  so  that  all  the  air  should  be  per 
fumed." 

"  And  not  books  ?     Conversation  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  much  about  books,  they  all  appear  to  have 
been  written  by  old  people ;  I  suppose  when  I  am  old  my 
self,  I  shall  like  them  better.  As  to  conversation — yes,  I  like 
a  little  of  it ;  but  I  like  actions  more — great  deeds,  you  know. 
Don't  you  like  great  deeds?" 

"  When  I  see  them ;  unfortunately,  there  are  very  few  of 
them  left  nowadays,  walking  about,  waiting  to  be  done." 

"  I  don't  know ;  let  me  tell  you  one.  The  other  day  a 
young  girl  here — not  of  our  society,  of  course — was  out  sail 
ing  with  a  party  of  friends  in  a  fishing-boat.  This  girl  had 
a  branch  of  wild-orange  blossoms  in  her  hand ;  suddenly  she 
threw  it  overboard,  and  challenged  a  young  man  who  was 
with  her  to  get  it  again.  He  instantly  jumped  into  the  wa 
ter;  there  was  a  good  deal  of  sea,  they  were  at  the  mouth 
of  the  harbor  and  the  tide  was  going  out;  they  were  run 
ning  before  a  fresh  breeze,  and,  having  no  oars  with  them, 
they  could  not  get  back  to  him  except  by  several  long  tacks. 
lie  could  not  swim  very  well,  and  the  tide  was  strong,  they 
thought  he  certainly  would  be  carried  out ;  but  he  kept  up, 
and  at  last  they  saw  him  land,  ever  so  far  down  Patricio — 
he  was  only  a  black  dot.  He  walked  back,  came  across  to 
Gracias  in  a  negro's  dug-out,  and  just  as  he  was,  without  wait 
ing  to  change  his  clothes,  he  brought  her  the  wet  flowers." 

"  It  is  the  old  story  of  the  Glove.  Did  he  throw  them  in 
her  face  ?" 


98  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Throw  them  in  her  face  ! — is  that  what  you  would  have 
done  ?"  said  Garda,  astonished. 

"Oh,  I  should  never  have  jumped  overboard,"  answered 
Winthrop,  laughing. 

Daring  this  interval,  Torres,  wishing  to  show  himself  a  man 
of  conversation,  after  his  own  method,  had  propounded  no 
less  than  three  questions  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  who  under 
stood  something  of  Spanish.  He  had  first  requested  infor 
mation  as  to  the  various  methods  of  punishment,  other  than 
the  whip,  which  had  been  in  use  on  the  plantations  in  the 
Gracias-a-Dios  neighborhood  before  the  emancipation,  and 
which  of  them  had  been  considered  the  most  effective.  His 
next  inquiry,  made  after  a  meditative  silence  of  some  min 
utes,  was  whether,  in  the  reverend  gentleman's  opinion,  the 
guillotine  was  not  on  the  whole  a  more  dignified  instrument 
for  the  execution  of  justice  than  the  noose — one  more  calcu 
lated  to  improve  the  minds  of  the  lower  classes?  Finally,  he 
wished  to  know  whether  the  clergyman  supposed  that  a  per 
son  suffered  more  when  an  arm  was  amputated  than  he  did 
when  a  leg  was  taken  off,  the  arm  being  nearer  the  vital  or 
gans  ;  and  whether  either  of  these  operations  could  be  com 
pared,  as  regarded  the  torture  inflicted,  with  that  caused  by 
a  sabre  wound  (such  as  one  might  receive  in  a  duel  with  swords) 
which  had  cut  into  the  breast  ? 

"  That  is  a  very  blood-thirsty  young  man  ;  his  style  of  con 
versation  is  really  extraordinary,"  said  the  clergyman  to  Dr. 
Kirby,  when  Torres,  having  exhausted  all  his  topics,  and  not 
having  understood  one  word  of  the  rector's  Spanish  in  reply, 
returned  gravely  to  his  place  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"  He  is  blood-thirsty  because  he  is  forced  to  be  so  dumb," 
answered  the  Doctor,  with  one  of  his  sudden  little  grins — 
grins  which  came  and  went  so  quickly  that,  were  it  not  for  a 
distinct  remembrance  of  about  sixteen  very  white  little  teeth 
which  he  had  seen,  the  gazer  would  scarcely  have  realized 
that  it  had  been  there  at  all.  "  No  one  here  (besides  your 
self  and  Manuel)  can  talk  Spanish  with  him  but  Garda,  and 
Mr.  Winthrop  has  kept  Garda  talking  English  every  moment 
since  he  came ;  I  don't  wonder  the  youth  is  blood-thirsty, 
I'm  afraid  that  at  his  age  I  should  have  called  the  northerner 
out." 


EAST  ANGELS.  99 

But  now  Winthrop  and  Garda  joined  the  others.  Win- 
throp  was  addressed  by  Mrs.  Thorne. 

"  I  have  been  begging  Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Mrs.  Harold  to 
pay  us  a  visit  at  East  Angels  some  day  this  week ;  I  hope, 
Mr.  Winthrop,  that  you  will  accompany  them." 

Winthrop  expressed  his  thanks ;  he  put  forward  the  hope 
in  return  that  she  would  join  them  for  an  afternoon  sail,  be 
fore  long,  down  the  Espiritu.  Mrs.  Thorne  was  sure  that  that 
would  be  extremely  delightful,  she  was  sure  that  his  yacht 
(she  brought  out  the  word  with  much  clearness;  no  one  had 
ventured  to  call  it  a  yacht  until  now)  was  also  delightful; 
and  its  name — Emperadora — was  so  charming  ! 

She  was  perched,  by  some  fatality,  on  a  high-seated  chair, 
so  high  that  (Winthrop  suspected)  her  little  feet  did  not 
touch  the  floor.  She  did  not  look  like  a  person  who  could 
enjoy  sailing,  one  who  would  be  able  to  undulate  easily,  yield 
to  the  motion  of  the  boat,  or  find  readily  accessible  in  her 
storehouse  of  feelings  that  mood  of  serene  indifference  to 
arriving  anywhere  at  any  particular  time,  which  is  a  neces 
sary  accompaniment  of  the  aquatic  amusement  when  pursued 
in  the  lovely  Florida  waters.  But  "  I  enjoy  sailing  of  all 
things,"  this  brave  little  matron  was  declaring. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  little  novelty  in  it  for  you.  You 
must  know  all  these  waters  well,"  observed  Winthrop. 

"  Even  if  I  do  know  them  well,  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  visit 
them  again  in  such  intelligent  society,"  replied  Mrs.  Thorne. 
"We  have  lived  somewhat  isolated,  my  daughter  and  I;  it 
will  be  a  widening  for  us  in  every  way  to  be  with  you — with 
Mrs.  Rutherford,  Mrs.  Harold,  and  yourself.  I  have  some 
times  feared,"  she  went  on,  looking  at  him  with  her  bright 
little  eyes,  "that  we  should  become,  perhaps  have  already  be 
come,  too  motionless  in  our  intellectual  life  down  here,  my 
daughter  and  myself." 

"Motionless  things  arc  better  than  moving  ones,  aren't 
they?"  answered  Winthrop.  "The  people  who  try  to  keep 
up  with  everything  are  apt  to  be  a  panting,  breathless  set. 
Besides,  they  lose  all  sense  of  comparison  in  their  haste,  and 
don't  distinguish ;  important  things  and  unimportant  they 
talk  about  with  equal  eagerness,  the  only  point  with  them  is 
that  they  should  be  newt" 


100  EAST  ANGELS. 

"You  console  me  —  you  console  me  greatly,"  responded 
Mrs.  Thome.  "Still,  I  feel  sure  that  knowledge,  and  impor 
tant  knowledge,  is  advancing  with  giant  strides  outside,  and 
that  we,  my  daughter  and  I,  are  left  behind.  I  have  seen 
but  few  of  the  later  publications — could  you  not  kindly  give 
me  just  an  outline  ?  In  geology,  for  instance,  always  so  ab 
sorbing,  what  are  the  latest  discoveries  with  regard  to  the 
Swiss  lakes  ?  And  I  should  be  so  grateful,  too,  for  any  choice 
thoughts  you  may  be  able  to  recall  at  the  moment  from  the 
more  recent  essays  of  Mr.  Emerson  ;  I  can  say  with  truth  that 
strengthening  sentences  from  Mr.  Emerson's  writings  were 
my  best  mental  pabulum  during  all  the  early  years  of  my 
residence  at  the  South." 

"  I — I  fancy  that  Mrs.  Harold  knows  more  of  Emerson 
than  I  do,"  replied  Winthrop,  reflecting  upon  the  picture  of 
the  New  England  school-teacher  transplanted  to  East  Angels, 
and  supporting  life  there  as  best  she  could,  on  a  diet  of  Mr. 
Emerson  and  "Paradise  Lost." 

"An  extremely  intelligent  and  cultivated  person,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Thome,  with  enthusiasm.  "Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Winthrop,  that  Mrs.  Harold  quite  fills  my  idea  of  a  combi 
nation  of  our  own  Margaret  Fuller  and  Madame  do  Stae'l." 

"  Yet  she  can  hardly  be  called  talkative,  can  she  ?"  said 
Winthrop,  smiling. 

"  It  is  her  face,  the  language  of  her  eye,  that  give  me  my 
impression.  Her  silence  seems  to  me  but  a  fulness  of  intel 
lect,  a  fulness  at  times  almost  throbbing;  she  is  a  Corinne 
mute,  a  Margaret  dumb." 

"  Were  they  ever  mute,  those  two?"  asked  Winthrop. 

Mrs.  Thorne  glanced  at  him.  "I  see  you  do  not  admire 
lady  conversationalists,"  she  murmured,  relaxing  into  her 
guarded  little  smile. 

Dr.  Kirby,  conversing  with  Mrs.  Rutherford,  had  brought 
forward  General  Lafayette.  On  the  rare  occasions  of  late 
years  when  the  Doctor  had  found  himself  called  upon  to 
conduct  a  conversation  with  people  from  the  North,  he  was 
apt  to  resort  to  Lafayette. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  stimulated  by  Mrs.  Carew's  excellent 
coffee,  advanced  the  opinion  that  Lafayette  was,  after  all, 
"  very  French." 


EAST 


"Ah!  but  Frenchmen  can  be  so  agreeable,"  said  Mrs. 
Carew.  "  There  was  Talleyrand,  you  know  ;  when  he  was 
over  here  he  wrote  a  sonnet  to  my  aunt,  beginning  '  Aimable 
Anne.'  And  then  there  was  little  Dumont,  Katrina  ;  you 
remember  him  ?  —  how  well  he  danced  !  As  for  Lafayette, 
when  he  made  his  triumphal  tour  through  the  country  after 
wards,  he  grew  so  tired,  they  say,  of  the  satin  sheets  which 
Gratitude  had  provided  for  him  at  every  town  that  he  was 
heard  to  exclaim,  *  Satan  de  satin  !'  Not  that  I  believe  it, 
because  there  are  those  beautiful  memoirs  and  biographies 
of  all  his  lady  -relatives  who  were  guillotined,  you  know, 
poor  things!  —  though,  come  to  think  of  it,  one  of  them 
must  have  been  saved  of  course  to  write  the  memoirs,  since 
naturally  they  couldn't  have  written  them  beforehand  them 
selves  with  all  those  touching  descriptions  of  their  own  dy 
ing  moments  and  last  thoughts  thrown  in  ;  well  —  what  I 
was  going  to  say  was  that  I  don't  believe  he  ever  swore  in 
the  least,  because  they  were  all  so  extremely  pious  ;  he 
couldn't  —  in  that  atmosphere.  What  a  singular  thing  it  is 
that  when  the  French  do  take  to  piety  they  out-Herod  Herod 
himself  !  —  and  I  reckon  the  reason  is  that  it's  such  a  novelty 
to  them  that  they're  like  the  bull  in  the  china  shop,  or  rather 
like  the  new  boy  at  the  grocer's,  who  is  not  accustomed  to 
raisins,  and  eats  so  many  the  first  day  that  he  is  made  seri 
ously  ill  in  consequence,  for  clear  raisins  are  very  trying." 

"  The  French,"  remarked  Dr.  Kirby,  "  have  often,  in  spite 
of  their  worldliness,  warm  enthusiasms  in  other  directions 
which  take  them  far,  very  far  indeed.  It  was  an  enthu 
siasm,  and  a  noble  one,  that  brought  Lafayette  to  our 
shores." 

"  Such  a  number  of  children  as  were  named  after  him, 
too,"  said  Mrs.  Carew,  starting  off  again.  "  I  remember  one 
of  them  ;  he  had  been  baptized  Marquis  de  Lafayette  (Mar 
quis  de  Lafayette  Green  was  his  full  name),  and  I  didn't  for 
a  long  time  comprehend  what  it  was,  for  his  mother  always 
called  him  '  Marquisdee,'  and  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  an 
Indian  name,  like  Manatee,  you  know  ;  for  some  people  do 
like  Indian  names  so  much,  though  I  can't  say  I  care  for 
them,  but  it's  a  matter  of  taste,  of  course,  like  everything 
else,  and  I  once  knew  a  dear  sweet  girl  who  had  been  named 


JG£  ;  >J  t' : :  ^/;  vi :    :  EAST  ANGELS. 

Ogcechee,  after  our  Southern  river,  you  remember ;  Ogeechee 
— do  you  like  that,  Katrina?" 

"  Heavens !  no,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  lifting  her  beauti 
ful  hands  in  protest  against  such  barbarism. 

"Yet  why,  after  all,  is  it  not  as  melodious  as  Beatrice?" 
remarked  Mr.  Moore,  meditatively,  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling. 

Gracias  society  was  proud  of  Mr.  Moore ;  his  linguistic 
accomplishments  it  regarded  with  admiration.  Mrs.  Carew, 
divining  the  Italian  pronunciation  of  Beatrice,  glanced  at 
Katrina  to  see  if  she  were  properly  impressed. 

Garda,  upon  leaving  Evert  Winthrop,  had  joined  Mrs. 
Harold,  at  whose  feet  Manuel  still  remained,  guitar  in  hand. 
"  Do  you  sing,  Mrs.  Harold  ?"  the  young  girl  said,  seating 
herself  beside  the  northern  lady,  and  looking  at  her  with  her 
usual  interest — an  interest  which  appeared  to  consist,  in  part, 
of  a  sort  of  expectancy  that  she  would  do  or  say  something 
before  long  which  would  be  a  surprise.  Nothing  could  be 
more  quiet,  more  unsurprising,  so  most  persons  would  have 
said,  than  Margaret  Harold's  words  and  manner.  But  Garda 
had  her  own  stand-point ;  to  her,  Mrs.  Harold  was  a  perpet 
ual  novelty.  She  admired  her  extremely,  but  even  more 
than  she  admired,  she  wondered. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Harold  had  answered,  "I  do  not  sing;  I 
know  something  of  instrumental  music." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  no  good  pianos  here,"  pursued  Gar- 
da;  "that  is,  none  that  you  would  call  good. — I  wish  you 
would  go  and  talk  to  Mr.  Torres,"  she  continued,  turning  to 
Manuel. 

The  young  Cuban  occupied  a  solitary  chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  his  method  apparently  having  allowed  him 
to  seat  himself  for  a  while ;  he  had  not  even  his  ivory  puz 
zle,  but  sat  with  his  hands  folded,  his  eyes  downcast. 

"You  ask  impossibilities,"  said  Manuel.  "What!  leave 
this  heavenly  place  at  Mrs.  Harold's  feet — and  yours — for 
the  purpose  of  going  to  talk  to  that  tiresome  Adolfo? 
Never !" 

"But  I  wish  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Harold  myself;  you  have 
already  had  that  pleasure  quite  too  long.  Besides,  if  you 
are  very  good,  I  will  tell  you  what  you  can  do ;  cards  will 
be  brought  out  presently,  and  then  it  will  be  seen  that  there 


EAST  ANGELS.  103 

are  ten  persons  present,  and  as  but  eight  are  required  for  the 
two  tables,  I  shall  be  the  one  left  out  to  talk  to  Adolfo,  as 
he  can  neither  play  nor  speak  English ;  in  this  state  of 
things  you  can,  if  you  are  watchful,  arrange  matters  so  as  to 
be  at  the  same  table  with  Mrs.  Harold ;  perhaps  even  her 
partner." 

"I  will  be  more  than  watchful,"  Manuel  declared;  "I 
will  be  determined !" 

"  I  play  a  wretched  game,"  said  the  northern  lady,  warn- 
in  gly. 

"  And  if  you  should  play  the  best  in  the  world,  I  should 
never  know  it,  absorbed  as  I  should  be  in  your  personal 
presence,"  replied  the  youth,  with  ardor. 

Mrs.  Harold  laughed.  Winthrop  (listening  to  Mrs. 
Thome's  remarks  upon  Emerson)  glanced  towards  their  lit 
tle  group. 

"People  do  not  talk  in  that  way  at  the  North.  That  is 
why  she  laughs,"  said  Garda,  explanatorily. 

"And  do  I  care  how  they  talk  in  their  frozen  North!" 
cried  Manuel.  "  I  talk  as  my  heart  dictates." 

"Do  so,"  said  Garda,  "but  later.  At  present,  go  and 
cheer  up  poor  Mr.  Torres;  he  is  fairly  shivering  with  loneli 
ness  over  there  in  his  corner." 

Manuel,  who,  in  spite  of  his  studied  attitude  at  the  feet  of 
Mrs.  Harold,  was  evidently  the  slave  of  whatever  whim  Gar- 
da  chose  to  express,  rose  to  obey.  "  But  do  not  in  the  least 
imagine  that  Adolfo  needs  cheering,"  he  explained,  still  pos 
ing  a  little  as  he  stood  before  them  with  his  guitar.  "  He 
entertains  himself  perfectly,  always ;  he  is  never  lonely,  he 
has  only  to  think  of  his  ancestors.  Adolfo  is,  in  fact,  a 
very  good  ancestor  already.  As  to  his  shivering — that  shows 
how  little  you  know  him ;  he  is  a  veritable  volcano,  that  si 
lent  one !  Still,  I  obey  your  bidding,  I  go." 

"What  do  you  think' of  him?"  said  Garda,  as  he  crossed 
the  room  towards  the  solitary  Cuban. 

"Mr.  Torres?" 

"  No  ;  Mr.  Ruiz." 

"I  know  him  so  slightly,  I  cannot  say  I  have  formed  an 
opinion." 

Garda  looked  at  the  two  young  men  for  a  moment ;  then, 


104  EAST  ANGELS. 

"They  arc  both  boys,"  she  said,  dismissing  them  with  a 
little  wave  of  her  hand. 

"  But  Mr.  Winthrop  is  not  a  boy,"  she  went  on,  her  eyes 
returning  to  the  northern  lady's  face.  "  How  old  is  Mr 
Winthrop  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Isn't  he  your  cousin  ?" 

"  Mr.  Winthrop  is  the  nephew  of  Mrs.  Rutherford,  who  is 
only  my  aunt  by  marriage." 

"But  if  you  have  always  known  him,  you  must  know 
how  old  he  is." 

"  I  have  not  always  known  him.  I  suppose  he  is  thirty- 
four  or  five." 

"  That  is  just  what  he  said,"  remarked  Garda,  reflectively. 

"That  I  was  thirty-four  or  five?" 

"  No ;  but  he  began  in  the  same  way.  He  said  that  he 
did  not  know;  that  you  were  not  his  cousin  ;  that  you  were 
the  niece  of  Mr.  Rutherford  ;  and  that  he  supposed  you  to 
be  about  twenty-seven  or  eight." 

"  I  am  twenty-six,"  said  Margaret. 

"And  he  is  thirty-five,"  added  Garda. 

"I  suppose  they  both  seem  great  ages  to  you,"  observed 
Margaret,  smiling. 

"It's  of  very  little  consequence  in  a  man — his  age,"  re 
plied  the  young  girl.  "  I  confess  that  I  thought  you  older 
than  twenty-six  ;  but  it's  not  because  you  look  old,  it's  be 
cause  you  look  as  if  you  did  not  care  whether  people  thought 
you  old  or  not,  and  generally  it's  only  women  who  are  really 
old,  you  know,  over  thirty,  like  mamma  and  Mrs.  Carew,  who 
have  that  expression — don't  you  think  so?  And  I  fancy  you 
don't  care  much  about  dress,  cither,"  she  went  on.  "Every 
thing  you  wear  is  very  beautiful ;  still,  I  don't  believe  you 
care  about  it.  Yet  you  wonld  carry  it  off  well,  any  amount 
of  it,  you  are  so  tall." 

"  I  think  you  are  as  tall  as  I  am,"  said  Margaret,  amused 
by  these  unconventional  utterances. 

"  Come  and  see,"  replied  Garda,  suddenly.  She  took  Mar 
garet's  hand  and  rose. 

"What  is  it  we  are  to  do?"  inquired  Margaret,  obeying 
the  motion  without  comprehending  its  object. 


EAST  ANGELS.  105 

"  Come,"  repeated  Garcia. 

They  passed  into  the  back  drawing-room,  and  Garda  led 
the  way' to  wards  a  large  mirror. 

"But  we  do  not  wish  to  survey  ourselves  in  the  presence 
of  all  this  company,"  said  Margaret,  pausing. 

"Yes,  we  do.  They  will  not  notice  us,  they  are  talking; 
it's  about  our  height,  you  know,"  answered  the  girl.  She  held 
Margaret's  hand  tightly,  and  drew  her  onward  until  they  both 
stood  together  before  the  long  glass. 

Two  images  gazed  back  at  them.  One  was  that  of  a  young 
girl  with  bright  brown  hair  curling  low  down  over  wonderful 
dark  eyes.  A  white  rose  was  placed,  in  the  Spanish  fashion, 
on  one  side  above  the  little  ear.  This  image  in  the  mirror 
had  a  soft  warm  color  in  its  cheeks,  and  a  deeper  one  still  on 
its  slightly  parted  lips  ;  these  lips  were  very  lovely  in  outline, 
with  short,  full,  upward-arching  curves  and  a  little  downward 
droop  at  the  corners.  The  rich  beauty  of  the  face,  and  in 
deed  of  the  whole  figure,  was  held  somewhat  aloof  from  in 
discriminate  appropriation,  by  the  indifference  which  accom 
panied  it.  It  was  not  the  indifference  of  experience,  there 
was  no  weariness  in  it, no  knowledge  of  life;  it  was  the  fresh 
indifference  rather  of  inexperience,  like  the  indifference  of  a 
child.  It  seemed,  too,  as  if  it  would  always  be  there,  as  if 
that  face  would  never  grow  eager,  no  matter  how  much  ex 
pansion  of  knowledge  the  years  might  bring  to  it ;  very  pos 
sibly,  almost  certainly,  this  beautiful  girl  would  demand  more 
of  life  in  every  way,  year  by  year,  as  it  passed ;  but  this  would 
not  make  her  strive  for  it,  she  would  always  remain  as  serene 
ly  careless,  as  unconcerned,  as  now. 

The  mirror  gave  back,  also,  the  second  image.  It  was  that 
of  a  woman  older — older  by  the  difference  that  lies  between 
sixteen  years  and  twenty-six.  This  second  image  was  tall  and 
slender.  It  had  hair  of  the  darkest  brown  which  is  not  black 
— hair  straight  and  fine,  its  soft  abundance  making  little  dis 
play ;  this  hair  was  arranged  with  great  simplicity,  too  great, 
perhaps,  for,  brushed  smoothly  back  and  closely  coiled  be 
hind,  it  had  an  air  of  almost  severe  plainness — a  plainness, 
however,  which  the  perfect  oval  of  the  face,  and  the  beauti 
ful  forehead,  full  and  low,  marked  by  the  slender  line  of  the 
dark  eyebrows,  with  the  additional  contrast  of  the  long  dark 


100  EAST  ANGELS. 

eyelashes  beneath,  could  bear.  The  features  were  regular, 
delicate ;  the  complexion  a  clear  white,  of  the  finest,  purest 
grain  imaginable,  the  sort  of  texture  which  gives  the  idea 
that  the  bright  color  will  come  and  go  through  its  fairness. 
This  expectation  was  not  fulfilled ;  the  same  controlled  calm 
seemed  to  hold  sway  there  which  one  perceived  in  the  blue 
eyes  and  round  the  mouth. 

As  Winthrop  had  said,  Margaret  Harold  was  considered 
handsome.  By  that  was  meant  that  she  was  in  possession 
of  a  general  acknowledgment  that  the  shape  and  poise  of 
her  head  were  fine,  that  her  features  were  well  cut,  that  her 
tall,  slender  form  was  charmingly  proportioned,  her  move 
ments  graceful.  Winthrop  would  have  stated,  as  his  own 
opinion,  that  she  was  too  cold  and  formal  to  be  beautiful — 
too  restricted ;  it  was  true  that  in  one  thing  she  was  not  re 
stricted  (this  was  also  his  own  opinion),  namely,  in  the  high 
esteem  she  had  for  herself. 

She  had  undoubtedly  a  quiet  reserved  sort  of  beauty.  But 
other  women  were  not  made  jealous  by  any  especial  interest 
in  her,  by  discussions  concerning  her,  by  frequent  introduc 
tion  of  her  name.  She  was  thought  unsympathetic;  but  as 
she  never  said  the  clever,  cutting  things  which  unsympathet 
ic  women  sometimes  know  how  to  say  so  admirably,  she  was 
not  thought  entertaining  as  well — as  they  often  are.  Opinion 
varied,  therefore,  as  to  whether  she  could  say  these  things, 
but  would  not,  or  whether  it  was  the  contrary,  that  she 
would  have  said  them  if  she  had  been  able,  but  simply  could 
not,  having  no  endowment  of  that  kind  of  wit;  one  thing 
alone  was  certain,  namely,  that  she  continued  not  to  say 
them. 

Her  dress,  as  seen  in  the  mirror,  had  much  simplicity  of 
aspect ;  but  this  was  owing  to  the  way  she  wore  it,  and'  the 
way  in  which  it  was  made,  rather  than  to  the  materials,  which 
were  ample  and  rich.  The  soft  silk,  Quakerish  in  hue,  lay 
in  folds  over  the  carpet  which  Garda's  scanty  skirt  barely 
touched ;  it  followed  the  lines  of  the  slender  figure  closely, 
while  Garda's  muslin,  which  had  been  many  times  washed, 
was  clumsy  and  ill-fitting.  The  gray  robe  came  up  smoothly 
round  the  throat,  where  it  was  finished  by  a  little  ruff  of  pre 
cious  old  lace,  while  the  poor  Florida  gown,  its  fashion  a 


EAST  ANGELS.  107 

reminiscence  of  Mrs.  Thome's  youth,  ended  at  that  awkward 
angle  which  is  neither  high  nor  low. 

But  all  this  made  no  difference  as  regarded  the  beauty 
of  Garda.  Of  most  young  girls  it  can  be  said  that  richness 
of  attire  spoils  them,  takes  from  their  youthfulness  its  chief 
charm ;  but  of  Garda  Thome  it  could  easily  be  believed  that 
no  matter  in  what  she  might  be  clad,  poor  garb  as  at  present, 
or  the  most  sumptuous,  she  herself  would  so  far  outshine 
whichever  it  happened  to  be,  that  it  would  scarcely  be  no 
ticed. 

"  You  are  the  taller,"  said  Garda.  "  I  knew  it !"  The  out 
line  of  the  head  with  the  smooth  dark  hair  was  clearly  above 
that  crowned  by  the  curling  locks. 

"  You  are  deceptive,"  said  Margaret, "  you  look  tall,  yet  I 
see  now  that  you  are  not.  Are  there  many  more  such  sur 
prises  about  you  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  answered  Garda,  "  I  love  surprises.  That  is, 
short  ones ;  I  don't  like  surprises  when  one  has  to  be  aston 
ished  ever  so  long,  and  keep  on  saying  '  oh  !'  and  '  dear  me  !' 
long  after  it's  all  over.  But  everything  long  is  tiresome,  I 
have  found  that  out." 

Winthrop  had  watched  them  pass  into  the  second  room. 
He  now  left  his  place,  and  joined  them. 

"  We  came  to  see  which  was  the  taller,"  said  Garda,  as  his 
face  appeared  in  the  mirror  behind  them.  Margaret  moved 
aside ;  but  as  Garda  still  held  her  hand,  she  could  not  move 
far.  Winthrop,  however,  was  not  looking  at  her,  his  eyes 
were  upon  the  reflection  of  the  younger  face  ;  perceiving 
this,  her  own  came  back  to  it  also. 

"  You  two  are  always  so  solemn,"  said  Garda,  breaking 
into  one  of  her  sweet  laughs ;  "  standing  between  you,  as 
I  do,  I  look  like  Folly  itself.  There  was  an  old  song  of 
Miss  Pamela's : 

" '  Reason  and  Folly  and  Beauty,  they  say, 
Went  on  a  party  of  pleasure  one  day — ' 

Here  they  are  in  the  glass,  all  three  of  them.  Mrs.  Harold 
is  Beauty." 

"  I  suppose  that  means  that  I  am  that  unfortunate  wretch, 
Reason,"  said  Winthrop.  "  Didn't  he  get  a  good  many  cuffs 


108  EAST  ANGELS. 

in  the  song?  He  generally  does  in  real  life,  I  know — poor 
fellow!" 

Garcia  had  now  released  Mrs.  Harold's  hand,  and  that  lady 
turned  away.  She  found  herself  near  an  interesting  collec 
tion  of  Florida  paroquets,  enclosed  in  a  glass  case,  "and  she 
devoted  her  attention  to  ornithology  for  a  while ;  the  birds 
returned  her  gaze  with  the  extremely  candid  eyes  contributed 
by  the  taxidermist.  Presently  Dr.  Kirby  came  to  conduct 
her  to  the  whist-table.  Pompey  had  arranged  these  tables 
with  careful  precision  upon  the  exact  figures  of  the  old  carpet 
which  his  mistress  had  pointed  out  beforehand ;  but  though 
Pompey  had  thus  arranged  the  tables,  the  players  were  not 
arranged  as  Garda  had  predicted.  Mrs.  Rutherford,  Dr.  Kir 
by,  Mrs.  Thorne,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  formed  one  group. 
At  the  other  table  were  Mrs.  Harold,  Manuel  Ruiz,  and  Mrs. 
Carew,  with  a  dummy.  Evert  Winthrop  did  not  play. 

This  left  him  with  Garda.  But  Torres  was  also  left ;  the 
three  walked  up  and  down  in  the  broad  hall  for  a  while,  and 
then  went  out  on  the  piazza.  Here  there  was  a  hammock, 
towards  which  Garda  declared  herself  irresistibly  attracted ; 
she  arranged  it  as  a  swing,  and  seated  herself.  Winthrop 
found  a  camp-chair,  and  placed  himself  near  her  as  she  slow 
ly  swayed  in  her  hanging  seat  to  and  fro.  But  Torres  re 
mained  standing,  according  to  his  method ;  he  stood  with 
folded  arms  in  the  shadow,  close  to  the  side  of  the  house,  but 
without  touching  it.  As  he  stood  there  for  an  hour  and  a 
half,  it  is  possible  that  he  found  the  occupation  tedious — un 
less  indeed  the  picture  of  Garda  in  the  moonlight  was  a  suffi 
cient  entertainment;  certainly  there  was  very  little  else  to 
entertain  him ;  Garda  and  Winthrop,  talking  English  with 
out  intermission,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  existence  en 
tirely. 

"  Adolfo,"  said  Manuel,  on  their  way  home,  giving  a  rapier- 
like  thrust  in  the  air  with  his  slender  cane,  "that  northerner, 
that  WTintup,  is  unendurable  !" 

"  He  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me,"  replied  Torres. 

"  What — when  he  keeps  you  out  there  on  the  piazza  for 
two  hours  in  perfect  silence  ?  I  listened,  you  never  spoke  one 
word ;  he  talked  all  the  time  to  Garda  himself." 

"That—I  suffered,"  said  Torres,  with  dignity. 


EAST  ANGELS.  109 

44  Suffered  ?    I  should  think  so  !    Are  you  going  to  '  suffer' 
him  to  buy  East  Angels,  too  ?" 

"He  may  buy  what  he  pleases.  He  cannot  make  himseli 
a  Spaniard." 

"  How  do  you  know  Garda  cares  so  much  for  Spaniards?" 
said  Manuel,  gloomily.  "  I  suppose  you  remember  that  the 
mother,  after  all,  is  a  northerner?" 

"  I  remember  perfectly,"  replied  the  Cuban.  "  The  seiior- 
ita  will  always  do — " 

"  What  her  mother  wishes  ?"  (Manuel  was  afraid  of  Mrs. 
Thome.) 

" — What  she  pleases,"  answered  Torres,  serenely. 


.:  -  CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  THINK  you  very  wonderful,"  said  Garda.  "  And  I  think 
you  very  beautiful  too,  though  no  one  seems  to  talk  about 
it.  That  in  itself  is  a  wonder.  But  everything  about  you 
is  wonderful."  She  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  her  hands 
crossed  on  Margaret  Harold's  knee,  her  chin  resting  on  her 
hands ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  lady's  face. 

"  You  are  easily  pleased,"  said  Margaret. 

"  No,"  replied  Garda,  with  the  leisurely  utterance  which 
took  from  her  contradictions  all  appearance  of  opposition ; 
"  I  am  not  easily  pleased  at  all,  it's  the  contrary.  I  see 
the  goodness  of  all  my  friends,  I  hope ;  I  love  them  very 
much.  But  they  do  not  please  me,  as  you  please  me,  for 
instance,  just  because  they  are  good,  or  because  I  love  them ; 
to  be  pleased  as  I  am  now,  to  admire  as  I  admire  you,  is  a 
very  different  thing." 

Margaret  said  nothing,  and  Garda,  as  if  wishing  to  con 
vince  her,  went  on;  "I  Jove  my  dear  Dr.  Reginald,  I  love 
him  dearly ;  but  don't  you  suppose  I  see  that  he  is  too  stout 
and  too  precise?  I  love  my  dear  Mr.  Moore,  I  think  him 
perfectly  adorable ;  but  don't  you  suppose  I  see  that  he  is 
too  lank  and  narrow-shouldered,  and  that  his  dear  good  little 
eyes  are  too  small  for  his  long  face — like  the  eyes  of  a  clean, 
thin,  white  pig  ?  Mrs.  Carew  is  my  kindest  friend ;  that 


110  EAST  ANGELS. 

doesn't  prevent  me  from  seeing  that  she  is  too  red.  Mr. 
Torres  is  too  dark,  Mr.  Winthrop  too  cold ;  and  so  it  goes. 
But  you — you  are  perfect." 

"  You  have  left  out  Mr.  Ruiz,"  suggested  Margaret,  smiling. 

"Manuel  is  beautiful;  yes,  in  his  face,  Manuel  is  very 
beautiful,"  said  Garda,  consideringly.  "  But  you  have  a  beau 
tiful  nature,  and  Manuel  has  only  an  ordinary  one.  It's 
your  having  a  beautiful  face  and  beautiful  nature  too  which 
makes  you  such  a  wonder  to  me,  because  people  with  beau 
tiful  natures  are  so  apt  to  have  ugly  faces,  or  at  least  thin, 
wrinkled,  and  forlorn  ones,  or  else  they  are  invalids;  and  if 
they  escape  that,  they  are  almost  sure  to  have  such  dreadful 
clothes.  But  you.  have  a  beautiful  nature,  and  a  beautiful 
face,  and  beautiful  clothes — all  three.  I  could  never  be  like 
you,  I  don't  want  to  be ;  but  I  admire  you  more  than  any 
one  I  have  ever  known,  and  I  hope  you  will  let  me  be  wi£h 
you  as  often  as  I  can  while  you  stay  here ;  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do  when  you  go  away  !" 

Margaret  smiled  a  second  time ;  the  young  girl  seemed  to 
her  very  young  indeed  as  she  uttered  these  candid  beliefs. 

"  Mamma  too  admires  you  so  much,"  continued  Garda ; 
"  I  have  never  known  mamma  to  admire  any  one  (outside  of 
our  own  family)  so  completely  as  she  admires  you;  for  gen 
erally  mamma  has  her  reservations,  you  know.  But  it  is 
your  intellect  which  mamma  admires,  and  /  do  not  care  so 
much  for  intellect;  of  course  it's  all  very  well  for  a  founda 
tion,  but  one  doesn't  want  to  be  all  foundation." 

"  Mrs.  Rutherford  would  like  to  see  you  for  a  moment, 
Miss  Margaret,  if  you  please,"  said  a  voice  which  seemed 
startlingly  near  them,  though  no  one  was  in  sight. 

It  was  Celestine ;  she  had  opened  the  door  noiselessly  the 
sixteenth  part  of  an  inch,  delivered  her  message  with  her 
lips  close  to  the  crack,  and  then  closed  it  again  with  the 
soundless  abruptness  which  characterized  all  her  actions. 

"That  is  the  fourth  time  Mrs.  Rutherford  has  sent  a  mes 
sage  since  I  came,  an  hour  ago,"  remarked  Garda.  "  She 
depends  upon  you  for  everything." 

"  Oh  no ;  upon  Celestine,"  said  Margaret,  as  she  left  the 
room. 

When  she  carne  back,  fifteen  minutes  later,  "You  are  mis- 


EAST  ANGELS.  Ill 

taken,"  Garda  answered,  as  though  there  had  been  no  interrup 
tion  ;  "  she  depends  upon  Celestine  for  her  clothes,  her  hair, 
her  medicine,  and  her  shawls;  but  she  depends  upon  you  for 
everything  else." 

"  Have  you  been  thinking  about  it  all  this  time  ?"  Margaret 
asked. 

"How  good  you  are!  Why  didn't  you  say,  'Is  there 
anything  else?'  But  I  have  noticed  that  you  never  say  those 
things.  Have  I  been  thinking  about  it  ail  this  time?  No, 
it  doesn't  require  thinking  about,  any  one  can  see  it ;  what 
I  have  been  thinking  about  is  yon."  She  had  taken  her 
former  place,  her  arms  crossed  on  Margaret's  knee.  "  You 
have  such  beautiful  hands,"  she  said,  lifting  one  and  spread 
ing  it  out  to  look  at  it. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Thorne,  vour  own  arc  much  more  beau 
tiful."' 

"Oh,  I  do  very  well,  I  know  what  I  am;  but  I  am  not 
you.  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  one  like  you ;  it  would  be 
too  much." 

"Too  much  perfection?"  said  Margaret,  laughing. 

"Yes,"  answered  Garda,  her  seriousness  unbroken.  "For 
you  take  quantities  of  trouble  for  other  people — I  can  see 
that.  And  the  persons  who  do  so  are  hardly  ever  happy — 
thoroughly  happy  ;  it  seems  such  a  pity,  but  it's  true.  Now 
I  am  always  happy ;  but  then  I  never  take  any  trouble  for 
any  one,  not  a  bit." 

"  I  haven't  observed  that,"  said  Margaret. 

"No  one  observes  it,"  responded  Garda,  composedly; 
"but  it  is  quite  true.  And  I  never  intend  to  take  any  trou 
ble,  whether  they  observe  it  or  not.  But  with  you  it  is  dif 
ferent,  you  take  a  great  deal ;  partly  you  have  taught  your 
self  to  do  it,  and  partly  you  were  made  so." 

"Since  when  have  you  devoted  your  attention  to  these 
deep  subjects,  Miss  Thorne?"  said  Margaret,  smiling  down 
upon  the  upturned  face  of  the  girl  before  her. 

Garda  rose  to  her  knees.  "  Oh,  don't  call  me  Miss  Thorne," 
she  said,  pleadingly,  putting  her  arms  round  her  companion. 
"  I  love  you  so  much — please  never  say  it  again." 

"  Very  well.     I  will  call  you  Garda." 


112  EAST  ANGELS. 

"I  like  it  when  you  are  cold  like  that — oh,  I  like  it!" 
said  Garda,  with  enthusiasm.  "All  you  say  when  I  tell  you 
I  adore  you  is,  '  Very  well ;  I  will  call  you  Garda ;'  you  do 
not  even  say  '  my  dear.'  That  is  beautiful,  because  you 
really  mean  it ;  you  mean  nothing  more,  and  you  say  noth 
ing  more." 

"Do  you  praise  me  simply  because  I  speak  the  truth?" 
said  Margaret. 

"  Yes ;  for  nothing  is  more  rare.  I  speak  the  truth  my 
self,  but  my  truth  is  whatever  happens  to  come  into  my 
head ;  your  truth  is  quiet  and  real,  as  you  yourself  are.  I 
could  never  be  like  you,  I  don't  want  to  be ;  but  I  admire 
you — I  admire  you." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  much  complimented,  if  you  keep 
on  insisting,  in  spite  of  it  all,  that  you  don't  want  to  be  like 
me,"  said  Margaret,  laughing  again. 

"Well," replied  Garda,"!  don't;  what's  the  use  of  pre 
tending?  For  I  wish  to  be  happy,  and  I  mean  to  be  happy. 
You  are  a  sort  of  an  angel ;  but  I  have  never  heard  that  angels 
had  very  much  of  a  good  time  themselves,  or  that  anybody 
did  anything  especial  for  their  pleasure  ;  they  are  supposed 
to  be  above  it.  But  I  am  not  above  it,  and  never  shall  be.n 
And  leaning  forward,  she  kissed  Margaret's  cheek.  "  It's  be 
cause  you're  so  wonderful,"  she  said. 

"I  am  not  wonderful  at  all,"  answered  Margaret,  rather 
coldly,  withdrawing  a  little  from  the  girl's  embrace. 

"And  if  you  didn't  answer  in  just  that  way,  you  wouldn't 
be,  of  course,"  said  Garda,  delightedly  ;  "  that  is  exactly  what 
I  mean — you  are  so  cold  and  so  true.  You  think  I  exagger 
ate,  you  do  not  like  to  have  me  talk  in  this  way  about  you, 
and  so  you  draw  back ;  but  only  a  little,  because  you  are  too 
good  to  hurt  me,  or  any  one.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  'any 
one '  to  you,  Mrs.  Harold.  Do  let  me  be  some  one." 

Now  came  again  the  ventriloquistic  voice  at  the  door, 
"  Phayton's  ready,  Miss  Margaret." 

"Why  doesn't  Mr.  Winthrop  drive  out  with  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford?"  said  Garda,  watching  Margaret  put  on  her  bonnet. 

"  He  is  probably  occupied." 

"  lie  is  never  occupied.  Do  you  call  it  occupied  to  be 
galloping  over  the  pine  barrens  in  every  direction,  and  stop- 


EAST  ANGELS.  113 

ping  at  East  Angels  ?  to  bo  exploring  the  King's  Road,  and 
stopping  at  East  Angels?  to  be  sailing  up  and  down  the  Es- 
piritu,  and  stopping  at  East  Angels  ?  to  be  paddling  up  all 
the  creeks,  and  stopping  at  East  Angels?" 

"  I  should  call  that  being  very  much  occupied  indeed," 
said  Margaret,  smiling. 

"  I  don't  then,"  replied  Garda ;  "  that  is,  not  in  your  sense 
of  the  word.  It's  being  occupied  with  his  own  pleasure — 
that's  all.  But  the  truth  is  Mrs.  Rutherford  takes  you,  al 
ways  you,  because  no  one  else  begins  to  make  her  so  com 
fortable  ;  you  not  only  see  that  she  has  everything  as  she 
likes  it,  but  that  she  has  nothing  as  she  doesn't  like  it,  which 
is  even  more  delightful.  Yet  apparently  she  doesn't  realize 
this  in  the  least ;  I  think  that  so  very  curious." 

"  Do  you  fancy  that  you  understand  Mrs.  Rutherford  on 
so  short  an  acquaintance?"  asked  Margaret,  rather  reprov 
ingly. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Garda,  in  her  calm  fashion,  her  atten 
tion,  however,  not  fixing  itself  long  upon  the  subject,  which 
she  seemed  to  consider  unimportant,  "I  wish  you  would 
get  a  palmetto  hat  like  mine,"  she  went  on  with  much  more 
interest;  "  vour  bonnet  is  lovely,  but  it  makes  you  seem 
old." 

"  But  I  am  old,"  said  Margaret,  as  she  left  the  room. 

She  did  not  apologize  for  leaving  her  guest ;  the  young 
girl  was  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  her  presence  upon  her  so 
often  now,  that  ceremony  between  them  had  come  to  an  end 
some  time  before.  She  took  her  place  in  the  phaeton,  which 
was  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  outside  stairway,  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford,  enveloped  in  a  rich  shawl,  having  already  been  installed 
by  Celestine.  Telano,  in  his  Sunday  jacket  of  black  alpaca, 
held  the  bridle  of  the  mild  old  horse  with  great  firmness. 
lie  had  put  on  for  the  occasion  his  broad-brimmed  man-of- 
war  hat,  which  was  decorated  with  a  blue  ribbon  bearing  in 
large  gilt  letters  the  inscription  Temeraire.  Telano  had  no 
idea  what  Temeraire  meant  (he  called  it  Turmrer) ;  he  had 
bought  the  hat  of  a  travelling  vender,  convinced  that  it 
would  add  to  the  dignity  of  his  appearance — as  it  certainly 
did.  For  there  was  nothing  commonplace  or  horizontal  in 
the  position  of  that  hat ;  the  vender  had  illustrated  how  it 


114  EAST  ANGELS. 

was  to  be  worn,  but  Telano,  fired  by  the  new  ambitions  of 
emancipation,  had  practised  in  secret  before  his  glass  until 
he  had  succeeded  in  getting  the  Turmrer  so  far  back  on  his 
curly  head  that  it  was  not  on  the  top  at  all,  but  applied  flat 
ly  and  perpendicularly  behind,  so  that  the  gazer's  mind  lost 
itself  in  possibilities  as  to  the  methods  of  adhesion  which  he 
must  have  employed  to  keep  it  in  place.  His  mistresses 
seated,  Telano  sprang  to  the  little  seat  behind  them,  where, 
with  folded  arms,  he  sat  stiffly  erect,  conscious  of  the  Turm 
rer,  showing  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  happy.  Margaret  lifted 
the  reins,  and  smiling  a  good-bye  to  Garda,  who  was  stand 
ing  on  the  outside  stairway,  drove  down  Pacheco  Lane  into 
the  plaza,  and  out  of  sight. 

Garda  still  leaned  on  the  balustrade;  though  left  alone, 
she  did  not  take  her  departure.  After  a  while  she  sat  down 
on  a  step,  and  leaned  her  head  back  against  the  railing ;  her 
eyes  were  fixed  indolently  upon  the  sea. 

"  Looking  across  to  Spain  ?"  said  Evert  Winthrop's  voice, 
ten  minutes  later.  He  had  come  down  the  lane,  his  step 
making  no  sound  on  the  mat  of  low,  thick  green. 

"  No,"  Garda  answered,  without  turning  her  eyes  from  the 
water.  "  If  I  want  Spain,  I  have  only  to  send  for  Mr.  Tor 
res  ;  he's  Spain  in  person." 

"  Are  you  here  alone  ?     Where  are  the  others?" 

"Gone  out  to  drive;  I  wish  you  had  never  sent  for  that 
phaeton  !" 

Several  weeks  had  passed  since  the  arrival  of  the  northern 
ladies;  but  it  seemed  more  like  several  months,  if  gauged  by 
the  friendship  which  had  been  bestowed  upon  them.  The 
little  circle  of  Gracias  society  had  opened  its  doors  to  them 
with  characteristic  hospitality  —  the  old-time  hospitality  of 
the  days  of  better  fortune;  its  spirit  unchanged,  though  the 
form  in  which  it  must  now  manifest  itself  was  altered  in  all 
save  its  charming  courtesy.  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Carew's,  that  was  enough  ;  they  were  all  friends  of  Mrs. 
Rutherford  in  consequence.  Mrs.  Kirby,  the  active  little 
mother  of  Dr.  Reginald,  invited  them  to  dine  with  her.  Mrs. 
Penelope  Moore,  the  rector's  wife,  though  seldom  able  to 
leave  her  sofa,  did  not  on  that  account  consider  herself  ex 
empt  from  the  present  privilege  of  entertaining  them.  Ma- 


EAST  ANGELS.  115 

dame  Ruiz,  the  mother  of  Manuel,  insisted  upon  several  visits 
at  her  residence  on  Patricio  Point.  Madame  Giron,  the  aunt 
of  Adolfo  Torres,  came  up  the  Espiritu  in  her  broad  old 
boat,  rowed  by  four  negro  boys,  to  beg  them  to  pass  a  day 
with  her  at  her  plantation,  which  was  south  of  East  Angels. 
Mrs.  Thome  did  what  she  could  in  the  way  of  afternoon  visits 
at  her  old  Spanish  mansion,  with  oranges,  conversation,  and 
Carlos  Mateo.  And  good  Betty  Carew  moved  in  and  out 
among  these  gentle  festivities  with  assiduous  watchfulness, 
ready  to  fill  any  gaps  that  might  present  themselves  with  se 
lections  from  her  own  best  resources ;  the  number  of  times 
she  invited  her  dearest  Katrina  to  lunch  with  her,  to  spend 
the  day  with  her,  to  pass  the  evening  with  her,  to  visit  the 
orange  groves  with  her,  to  play  whist,  to  go  and  see  the  rose 
gardens,  and  to  "  bring  over  her  work  "  in  the  morning  and 
"  sit  on  the  piazza  and  talk,"  could  not  be  counted.  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  who  never  had  any  work  beyond  the  holding  of  a 
fan  sometimes  to  screen  her  face  from  the  fire  or  sun,  was  ami 
ably  willing  to  sit  on  the  piazza  (Betty's)  and  talk — talk  with 
the  peculiar  degree  of  intimacy  which  embroidery  (or  knit 
ting)  and  piazzas,  taken  together,  seem  to  produce.  Especial 
ly  was  she  willing  as,  without  fail,  about  eleven  o'clock,  Porn- 
pey  appeared  with  a  little  tray,  covered  with  a  snowy  damask 
napkin,  upon  which  reposed  a  small  loaf  of  delicious  cake, 
freshly  baked,  two  saucers  (of  that  old  blue  china  whose  re 
cent  nicks  owed  their  origin  to  emancipation),  a  glass  dish 
heaped  with  translucent  old-fashioned  preserves,  and  a  little 
glass  pitcher  of  rich  cream.  Mrs.  Rutherford  thought  this 
"  so  amusing — at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning !"  But  it 
was  noticed  that  she  never  refused  it. 

If  Katrina  had  no  work,  Betty  had  it  in  abundance.  It 
was  not  embroidery — unless  mending  could  be  called  by  that 
name.  But  Betty  did  not  accomplish  as  much  as  she  might 
have  done,  owing  to  the  fact  that  about  once  in  ten  minutes 
she  became  aware  of  the  loss  of  her  scissors,  or  her  spool  of 
thread,  and  was  forced  to  get  up,  shake  her  skirts,  or  dive  to 
the  bottom  of  her  pocket  in  search  of  them.  For  her  pock 
et  had  a  wide  mouth,  which  was  not  concealed  by  a  superflu 
ous  ovcrskirt;  it  was  a  deep  comfortable  pocket  going  well 
down  below  the  knee,  its  rotund  outline,  visible  beneath  the 


116  EAST  ANGELS. 

skirt  of  the  gown,  suggesting  to  the  experienced  eye  a  hand 
kerchief,  a  battered  porte-monnaie,  a  large  bunch  of  keys, 
two  or  three  crumpled  letters,  a  pencil  with  the  stubby  point 
which  a  woman's  pencil  always  possesses,  a  half-finished  stock 
ing  and  ball  of  yarn,  a  spectacle-case,  a  paper  of  peppermint 
drops,  and  a  forgotten  pair  or  two  of  gloves. 

These  little  entertainments  hospitably  given  for  the  north 
ern  ladies  succeeded  each  other  rapidly  —  so  rapidly  that 
Margaret  began  to  fear  lest,  mild  as  they  were  in  themselves, 
they  should  yet  make  inroads  on  Mrs.  Rutherford's  strength. 

"  You  needn't  be  scairt,  Miss  Margaret,"  was  Celestine's 
reply  to  this  suggestion,  a  remote  gleam  of  a  smile  lighting 
up  for  a  moment  her  grim  face ;  "  a  little  gentlemen-talk  is 
very  strengthening  to  yer  aunt  at  times ;  nothin'  more  so." 

During  these  weeks  Garda  Thome  had  manifested  a  con 
stantly  increasing  devotion  to  Margaret  Harold  ;  that,  at  least, 
was  what  they  called  it  in  the  little  circle  of  Gracias  society, 
where  it  was  considered  an  interesting  development  of  char 
acter.  These  good  friends  said  to  each  other  that  their  lit 
tle  girl  was  coming  on,  that  they  should  soon  be  obliged  to 
think  of  her  as  something  more  than  a  lovely  child. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  had  another  name  for  it;  she  called  it 
curiosity.  "That  little  Thome  girl  (who  is  quite  pretty)," 
she  remarked  to  Winthrop,  "seems  to  be  never  tired  of  look 
ing  at  Margaret,  and  listening  to  what  she  says.  Yet  Mar 
garet  certainly  says  little  enough !"  Mrs.  Rutherford  never 
went  beyond  "  quite  pretty  "  where  Garda  was  concerned. 
It  was  her  superlative  for  young  girls,  she  really  did  not 
think  they  could  be  more. 

"  You  wish  that  I  had  never  sent  for  that  phaeton  ? 
Would  you,  then,  deprive  my  poor  aunt  of  her  drives  ?" 
Winthrop  had  said,  in  answer  to  Garda's  remark. 

"  Do  you  care  much  for  your  poor  aunt  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  I  care  a  great  deal." 

"  Then  why  do  you  never  drive  out  with  her  yourself  ?" 

"I  do;  often."  ' 

"  I  have  been  here  every  afternoon  for  a  week,  and  every 
afternoon  Margaret  has  had  to  leave  me,  because  Mrs.  Ruth 
erford  sends  word  that  the  phaeton  is  ready." 

"  Well,  perhaps  for  the  past  week — " 


EAST  ANGELS.  117 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have  been  for  two ;  I  don't  believe 
yon  have  been  for  three,"  pursued  the  girl.  "  You  arc  will 
ing  to  go,  probably  you  suppose  you  do  go;  but  in  reality 
it  is  Margaret,  always  Margaret.  Do  you  know  what  I 
think  ? — you  do  not  half  appreciate  Margaret." 

"I  am  glad  at  least  that  you  do,"  Winthrop  answered. 
"  Do  you  prefer  that  step  to  a  chair  ?" 

"Yes;  for  I  ought  to  be  going  back  to  the  Kirbys,  and 
sitting  here  is  more  like  it.  Not  that  I  mean  to  hurry,  you 
know." 

"It's  pleasant,  staying  with  the  Kirbys,  isn't  it?"  said 
Winthrop.  He  was  standing  on  a  step  below  hers,  leaning 
against  the  side  of  the  house  in  the  shade. 

"  No,"  answered  Garda,  "  it  isn't;  that  is,  it  isn't  so  pleas 
ant  as  staying  at  home.  I  like  my  own  hammock  best,  and 
Carlos  Mateo  is  funnier  than  any  one  I  know.  But  by  stay 
ing  in  town  I  can  see  more  of  Margaret,  and  that  is  what  I 
care  for  most ;  I  don't  know  how  I  can  endure  it  when  she 
goes  away !" 

"  You  had  better  persuade  her  not  to  go.'1 

"But  she  must  go,  unless  Mrs.  Rutherford  should  take  a 
fancy  to  stay,  which  is  not  at  all  probable ;  Mrs.  Rutherford 
couldn't  get  on  without  Margaret  one  day." 

"  I  think  you  exaggerate  somewhat  my  aunt's  dependence 
upon  Mrs.  Harold,"  observed  Winthrop,  after  a  pause. 

"I  was  waiting  to  hear  you  say  that.  You  are  all  curi 
ously  blind.  Mrs.  Rutherford  is  so  handsome  that  I  like  to 
be  in  the  same  room  with  her;  but  that  doesn't  keep  me 
from  seeing  how  much  has  to  be  done  for  her  constantly, 
and  in  her  own  particular  way,  too,  from  important  things 
down  to  the  smallest ;  and  that  the  person  who  attends  to  it 
all,  keeps  it  all  going,  is — " 

"  Minerva  Poindexter,"  suggested  Winthrop. 

"  Is  Margaret  Harold ;  I  cannot  imagine  how  it  is  that 
you  do  not  see  it!  But  you  do  not  any  of  you  compre 
hend  her — comprehend  how  unselfish  she  is,  how  self-sacri 
ficing." 

Winthrop's  attention  had  wandered  away  from  Garda's 
words.  He  did  not  care  for  her  opinion  of  Margaret  Har 
old;  it  was  not  and  could  not  be  important— the  opinion  of 


118  EAST  ANGELS. 

a  peculiarly  inexperienced  young  girl  about  a  woman  ten 
years  older  than  herself,  a  woman,  too,  whose  most  marked 
characteristic,  so  he  had  always  thought,  was  the  reticence 
which  kept  guard  over  all  her  words  and  actions.  No,  for 
Garda's  opinions  he  did  not  care ;  what  attracted  him,  be 
sides  her  beauty,  was  her  wonderful  truthfulness,  her  grace 
and  ease.  "  How  indolent  she  is !"  was  his  present  thought, 
while  she  talked  on  about  Margaret,  her  eyes  still  watching 
the  sea.  "  On  these  old  steps  she  has  taken  the  one  position 
that  is  comfortable  ;  yet  she  has  managed  to  make  it  grace 
ful  as  well ;  she  finds  a  perfect  enjoyment  in  simply  sitting 
here  for  a  while  in  this  soft  air,  looking  at  the  water,  and  so 
here  she  sits,  without  a  thought  of  doing  anything  else.  At 
home,  it  would  be  the  hammock  and  the  crane ;  so  little  suf 
fices  for  her.  But  she  enjoys  her  little  more  fully,  she  ap 
preciates  her  enjoyment  as  it  passes  more  completely,  than 
any  girl  of  her  age,  or,  indeed,  of  much  more  than  her  age, 
whom  I  have  ever  known.  Our  northern  girls  arc  too  com 
plex  for  that,  they  have  too  many  interests,  too  many  things 
to  think  of,  and  they  require  too  many,  also,  to  enjoy  in  this 
simple  old  way ;  perhaps  they  would  say  that  they  were  too 
conscientious.  But  here  is  a  girl  who  is  hampered,  or  en 
larged — whichever  you  choose  to  call  it — by  no  such  condi 
tions,  who  tastes  her  pleasures  fully,  whatever  they  may  hap 
pen  to  be,  as  they  pass.  But  though  her  pleasures  are  simple, 
her  enjoyment  of  them  is  rich,  it's  the  enjoyment  of  a  rich 
temperament;  many  women  would  not  know  how  to  enjoy 
in  that  way.  She's  simple  from  her  very  richness;  but  she 
doesn't  in  the  least  know  it,  she  has  never  analyzed  herself, 
nor  anything  else,  and  never  will ;  she  leaves  analysis  to 
— to  thin  people."  Thus  he  brought  up,  with  an  inward 
laugh  over  his  outcome.  His  thoughts,  however,  had  not 
been  formulated  in  words,  as  they  have  necessarily  been 
formulated  for  expression  upon  the  printed  page;  these  va 
rious  ideas — though  they  were  scarcely  distinct  enough  to 
merit  that  name — passed  through  his  consciousness  slowly, 
each  melting  into  the  next,  without  effort  on  his  own  part ; 
the  effort  would  have  been  to  express  them. 

When  Garda,  after  another  quarter  of  an   hour's  serene 
contemplation  of  the  sea,  at  length  rose,  he  walked  with  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  119 

down  the  lane  and  across  the  plaza  to  Mrs.  Kirby's  gate. 
Then,  when  she  had  disappeared,  he  went  over  to  the  Semi- 
nole,  mounted  his  horse,  and  started  for  a  ride  on  the  pine 
barrens. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HE  continued  to  think  of  this  young  girl  as  he  rode.  One 
of  the  reasons  for  this  probably  wras  the  indifference  with 
which  she  regarded  him,  now  that  her  first  curiosity  had 
been  satisfied  ;  her  manner  was  always  pleasant,  but  Manuel 
evidently  amused  her  more,  and  even  Adolfo  Torres ;  while 
to  be  with  Margaret  Harold  she  would  turn  her  back  upon 
him  without  ceremony,  she  had  repeatedly  done  it.  Win- 
throp  asked  himself  whether  it  could  be  possible  that  he 
was  becoming  annoyed  by  this  indifference,  or  that  he  was 
surprised  by  it  ?  Certainly  he  had  never  considered  himself 
especially  attractive,  personally ;  if  therefore,  in  the  face  of 
this  fact,  he  was  guilty  of  surprise,  it  must  be  that  he  had 
breathed  so  long  that  atmosphere  of  approbation  which  sur 
rounded  him  at  the  North,  that  he  had  learned,  though 
unconsciously,  to  rely  upon  it,  had  ended  by  becoming  com 
placent,  smug  and  complacent,  expectant  of  attention  and 
deference. 

The  advantages  which  had  caused  this  approving  north 
ern  atmosphere  were  now  known  in  Gracias.  And  Garda 
remained  untouched  by  them.  But  that  he  should  be  sur 
prised,  or  annoyed,  by  her  indifference — this  possibility  was 
the  more  distasteful  to  him  because  he  had  always  been  so 
sure  that  he  disliked  the  atmosphere,  greatly.  He  had  never 
been  at  all  pleased  by  the  knowledge  that  he  inspired  a 
general  purring  from  good  mammas,  whenever  his  name 
was  mentioned;  he  had  no  ambition  to  attract  so  much  do 
mestic  and  pussy-like  praise.  Most  of  all  he  did  not  enjoy 
being  set  down  as  so  extremely  safe;  if  he  were  safe,  it  was 
his  own  affair;  he  certainly  was  not  cultivating  the  quality 
for  the  sake  of  the  many  excellent  matrons  who  happened 
to  form  part  of  his  acquaintance. 

But,  viewed  from  any  maternal  stand-point,  Evert  Win- 


120  EAST  ANGELS. 

throp  was,  find  in  spite  of  himself,  almost  ideally  safe.  He 
-was  thirty-five  years  old,  and  therefore  past  the  uncertain- 
tics,  the  vague  hazards  and  dangers,  that  cling  about  youth. 
His  record  of  personal  conduct  had  no  marked  flaws.  He 
had  a  large  fortune,  a  quarter  of  which  he  had  inherited,  and 
the  other  three-quarters  gained  by  his  own  foresight  and 
talent.  He  had  no  taste  for  speculation,  he  was  prudent 
and  cool ;  he  would  therefore  be  sure  to  take  excellent  care 
of  his  wealth,  it  would  not  be  evanescent,  as  so  many  Ameri 
can  fortunes  had  a  way  of  becoming.  He  had  perfect  health ; 
and  an  excellent  family  descent  on  both  sides  of  the  house; 
for  what  could  be  better  than  the  Puritan  Winthrops  on  OEC 
hand,  and  the  careful,  comfortable  old  Dutch  settlers  of  New 
Amsterdam,  from  whom  his  mother  came,  on  the  other?  He 
had  a  fair  amount  of  good  looks — one  did  not  have  to  for 
give  him  anything,  physically ;  he  had  sufficient  personal 
presence  to  escape  the  danger  of  being  merely  the  cup,  as  it 
were,  for  the  rich  wine  of  his  own  good-luck.  Though  quiet  in 
manner,  rather  silent,  and  not  handsome,  he  was  a  man  whom 
everybody  remembered.  Those  who  were  not  aware  of  his 
advantages  remembered  him  as  clearly  as  those  who  knew 
them  all;  his  individuality  was  distinct.  He  had  been  a 
good  son,  he  was  now  a  good  nephew ;  these  facts  were  defi 
nitely  known  and  proved  ;  American  mothers  are  not  merce 
nary,  and  it  is  but  just  to  add  that  this  good  sonship  and 
good  nephewship,  as  well  as  his  good  record  in  other  direc 
tions,  had  had  as  much  to  do  with  the  high  appreciation  that 
many  of  them  had  of  him,  as  the  amount  of  his  income.  He 
was,  in  short,  a  bright  example  of  a  person  without  draw 
backs,  he  was  a  rare  instance  whose  good  points  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  sum  up ;  they  summed  him  up,  therefore,  joy 
fully  ;  they  proclaimed  the  total ;  they  said  everything  that 
was  delightful  about  him.  Going  deeper,  they  were  sure 
that  he  had  broken  none  of  the  commandments.  There  had 
been  times  when  Win  throp  had  almost  felt  like  breaking 
them  all,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  this  rampart  of  approval, 
which  surrounded  him  too  closely,  like  a  wall  of  down.  But 
there  again — he  could  not  be  vicious  simply  to  oblige  these 
ladies,  or  rather  to  disoblige  them ;  he  must  be  what  it 
seemed  good  to  him  to  be.  But  he  respectfully  wished  that 


EAST  ANGELS.  121 

they  could  realize  how  indifferent  he  was  to  their  estimation 
of  him,  good  or  bad. 

He  was  a  man  by  no  means  easily  pleased.  He  could  not, 
therefore,  always  believe  that  other  people  were  sincere  when 
they  were  so  unlike  himself — so  much  more  readily  pleased, 
for  instance,  with  him,  than  he  was  with  them.  For  he  was 
essentially  modest  at  heart ;  though  obstinate  in  many  of 
his  ideas,  he  had  not  that  assured  opinion  of  himself,  that 
solidly  installed  self-approbation,  which  men  in  his  position 
in  America  (possessed  of  large  fortunes  which  they  have 
gained  for  the  most  part  by  their  own  talent)  are  apt,  though 
often  unconsciously,  to  cherish.  As  he  was  fastidious,  it  was 
no  pleasure  to  him  to  taste  the  open  advantages  of  his  posi 
tion  ;  they  were  too  open,  he  did  not  care  for  things  so  easily 
gained.  And  when  these  advantages  were  presented  to  him 
in  feminine  eyes  and  smiles,  or  a  feminine  handwriting,  he 
could  not  even  take  a  jocular  view  of  it.  For  though  he  was 
a  man  of  the  world,  he  was  not  (this  was  another  of  his  se 
crets)  in  the  least  blase ;  he  had  his  ideal  of  what  the  best 
of  life  should  be,  and  he  kept  it  like  a  Madonna  in  its  shrine. 
When,  therefore,  this  ideal  was  pulled  by  force  from  its  niche, 
or,  worse  still,  stepped  down  of  its  own  accord,  he  was  im 
mensely  disgusted,  he  felt  a  sense  of  personal  injury,  as  if 
the  most  precious  feelings  of  life  had  been  profaned.  He 
had  believed  in  this  woman,  perhaps,  to  the  extent  of  sup 
posing  her  sweet  and  womanly ;  yet  here  she  was  thinking 
— yes,  without  doubt  thinking  (either  for  herself  or  for  some 
one  else)  of  the  benefits  which  his  position  could  confer. 
That  the  little  advances  she  had  made  had  been  microscopi 
cally  small,  only  made  the  matter  worse ;  if  she  had  enough 
of  refinement  to  make  them  so  delicate,  she  should  have  had 
enough  to  not  make  them  at  all.  It  was  characteristic  of 
this  man  that  he  never  at  such  times  thought  that  the  offend 
er  might  be  actuated  by  a  real  liking  for  himself  —  himself 
apart  from  this  millstone  of  his  excellent  reputation  and 
wealth ;  this  was  a  feature  of  the  personal  modesty  that  be 
longed  to  him.  A  man  less  modest  (that  is,  the  great  ma 
jority  of  men),  placed  in  a  position  similar  to  his,  would 
have  been  troubled  by  no  such  poverty  of  imagination. 

It  must,  however,  be  added  that  this  modesty  of  Win- 


122  EAST  ANGELS. 

throp's  was  strictly  one  of  liis  inner  feelings,  not  revealed  to 
the  world  at  large.  The  world  never  suspected  it,  and  had 
no  reason  for  suspecting  it;  it  had,  indeed,  nothing  to  do 
with  the  world,  it  was  a  private  attribute.  To  the  world  he 
was  a  cool,  quiet  man,  equally  without  pretensions  and  with 
out  awkwardnesses.  One  could  not  have  told  whether  he 
thought  well  of  himself — especially  well — or  not. 

Why  this  man,  so  fully  belonging  to  this  busy,  self-assert 
ing  nineteenth  centuiy,  should  have  preserved  so  much  hu 
mility  in  the  face  of  his  successes  —  success  of  fortune,  of 
equilibrium,  of  knowledge,  of  accomplishment  of  purpose,  of 
self-control — this  would  have  been,  perhaps,  a  question  for 
the  student  of  heredity.  Was  it  a  trait  inherited  from  Puri 
tan  ancestors,  some  Goodman  Winthrop  of  gentle  disposi 
tion,  a  man  not  severe  in  creed  or  demeanor,  nor  firm  in  ex 
terminating  Indians,  and  therefore  of  small  consequence  in 
his  day  and  community,  and  knowing  it?  Or  was  it  a  ten 
dency  inherited  from  some  Dutch  ancestress  on  the  maternal 
side,  some  sweet  little  flaxen-haired  great-grandmother,  who 
had  received  in  her  maiden  breast  one  of  those  deadly  though 
unseen  shafts — the  shaft  of  slight — from  which  a  "woman's 
heart  never  wholly  recovers? 

But  mental  organizations  arc  full  of  contradictions;  looked 
at  in  another  way,  this  deep,  unexpressed  personal  humility 
in  Evert  Winthrop's  nature,  underneath  his  rather  cold  ex 
terior,  Ins  keen  mind  and  strong  will,  might  almost  have 
been  called  a  pride,  so  high  a  demand  did  it  make  upon  life. 
For  if  one  has  not  attractive  powers,  love,  when  it  does  come, 
when  it  is  at  last  believed  in,  has  a  peculiarly  rich  quality : 
it  is  so  absolutely  one's  own  ! 

The  father  of  Evert  Winthrop,  Andrew  Winthrop,  was 
called  eccentric  during  all  his  life.  But  it  was  an  eccentrici 
ty  which  carried  with  it  none  of  the  slighting  estimations 
which  usually  accompany  the  term.  Andrew  Winthrop,  in 
truth,  had  been  eccentric  only  in  being  more  learned  and 
more  original  than  his  neighbors ;  perhaps,  also,  more  severe. 
He  was  a  fair  classical  scholar,  but  a  still  better  mathemati 
cian,  and  had  occupied  himself  at  various  times  with  astron 
omy  ;  he  had  even  built  a  small  observatory  in  the  garden 
behind  his  house.  But  most  of  all  was  he  interested  in  the 


EAST  ANGELS.  123 

rapid  advance  of  science  in  general,  the  advance  all  along  the 
line,  which  he  had  lived  to  see;  he  enjoyed  this  so  much 
that  it  was  to  him,  during  his  later  years,  what  a  daily 
draught  of  the  finest  wine,  is  to  an  old  connoisseur  in  vin 
tages,  whose  strength  is  beginning  to  fail  him.  He  once  said 
to  his  son  :  "  The  world  is  at  last  getting  into  an  intelligible 
condition.  My  only  regret  is  that  I  could  not  have  lived  in 
the  century  which  is  coming,  instead  of  in  the  one  which  is 
passing;  but  I  ought  not  to  complain,  I  have  at  least  seen 
the  first  rays.  What  should  I  have  done  if  my  lot  had  been 
cast  among  the  millions  who  lived  before  Darwin  !  I  should 
either  have  become  a  bacchanalian  character,  drowning  in 
stupid  drinking  the  memory  of  the  enigmas  that  oppressed 
me,  or  I  should  have  fled  to  the  opposite  extreme  and  taken 
refuge  in  superstition — given  up  my  intellect,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  to  the  care  of  the  priests.  The  world  has  been  in 
the  wilderness,  Evert,  through  all  the  ages  of  which  we  have 
record;  now  a  clearer  atmosphere  is  at  hand.  I  shall  not 
enter  this  promised  land,  but  I  can  see  its  shining  afar  off. 
You,  my  son,  will  enter  in  ;  prize  your  advantages,  they  arc 
greater  than  those  enjoyed  by  the  greatest  kings,  the  great 
est  philosophers,  one  hundred  years  ago." 

This  Puritan  without  a  creed,  this  student  of  science  who 
used  more  readily  than  any  other  the  language  of  the  Bible, 
brought  up  his  only  child  with  studied  simplicity ;  in  all 
that  related  to  his  education,  with  severity.  The  little  boy's 
mother  had  died  soon  after  his  birth,  and  Andrew  Winthrop 
had  mourned  for  her,  the  young  wife  who  had  loved  him,  all 
the  rest  of  his  life.  But  in  silence,  almost  in  sternness; 
he  did  not  welcome  sympathy  even  when  it  came  from  his 
wife's  only  sister,  Mrs.  Rutherford.  And  he  would  not  give 
up  the  child,  though  the  aunt  had  begged  that  the  poor 
baby  might  be  intrusted  to  her  for  at  least  the  first  year  of 
his  motherless  life;  the  only  concession  he  made  was  in  al 
lowing  the  old  Episcopal  clergyman  who  had  baptized  Ger 
trude  to  baptize  Gertrude's  child,  and  in  tacitly  promising 
that  the  boy  should  attend,  if  he  pleased,  the  Episcopal 
Church  when  he  grew  older,  his  mother  having  been  a  de 
voted  Church  woman.  He  kept  the  child  with  him  in  the 
large,  lonely  New  England  house  which  even  Gertrude  Win- 


124  EAST  ANGELS. 

throp's  sweetness  had  not  been  able  to  make  fully  home-like 
and  warm.  For  it  had  been  lived  in  too  long,  the  old  house, 
by  a  succession  of  Miss  Winthrops,  conscientious  old  maids 
with  narrow  chests,  thin  throats,  and  scanty  little  knobs  of 
gray-streaked  hair  behind — the  sort  of  good  women  with 
whom  the  sense  of  duty  is  far  keener  than  that  of  comfort, 
and  in  whose  minds  character  is  apt  to  be  gauged  by  the 
hour  of  getting  up  in  the  morning.  There  had  always  been 
three  or  four  Miss  Winthrops  of  this  pattern  in  each  genera 
tion  ;  they  began  as  daughters,  passed  into  aunts,  and  then 
into  grandannts,  as  nieces,  growing  up,  took  their  first  posi 
tions  from  them.  Andrew  Winthrop  himself  had  spent  his 
childhood  among  a  number  of  these  aunts — aunts  both  sim 
ple  and  "  grand."  But  the  custom  of  the  family  had  begun 
to  change  in  his  day ;  the  aunts  had  taken  to  leaving  this 
earthly  sphere  much  earlier  than  formerly  (perhaps  because 
they  had  discovered  that  they  could  no  longer  attribute  late 
breakfasts  to  total  depravity),  so  that  when,  his  own  youth 
past,  he  brought  his  Gertrude  home,  there  was  not  one  left 
there  ;  they  were  alone. 

The  poor  young  mother,  when  death  so  soon  came  to  her, 
begged  that  the  little  son  she  was  leaving  behind  might  be 
called  Evert,  after  her  only  and  dearly  loved  brother,  Evert 
Bcekman,  who  had  died  not  long  before.  Andrew  Winthrop 
had  consented.  But  he  was  resolved,  at  the  same  time,  that 
no  Beekman,  but  only  Winthrop,  methods  should  be  used  in 
the  education  of  the  child.  The  \Vinthrop  methods  were 
used  ;  and  with  good  effect.  But  the  boy  learned  something 
of  the  BeekmanNvays,  after  all,  in  the  delightful  indulgence 
and  petting  he  received  from  his  aunt  Katrina  when  he  went 
to  visit  her  at  vacation  times,  either  at  her  city  home  or  at 
her  old  country-house  on  the  Sound ;  he  learned  it  in  her 
affectionate  words,  in  the  smiling  freedom  from  rules  and 
punishments  which  prevailed  at  both  places,  in  the  wonderful 
toys,  and,  later,  the  dogs  and  gun,  saddle-horse  and  skiff, 
possessed  by  his  fortunate  cousin  Lansc. 

Andrew  Winthrop  was  not  that  almost  universal  thing  in 
his  day  for  a  man  in  his  position  in  New  England,  a  lawyer ; 
he  owned  and  carried  on  an  iron-foundery,  as  his  father  had 
done  before  him.  He  had  begun  with  some  money,  and  he 


EAST  ANGELS.  125 

had  made  more ;  he  knew  that  he  was  rich  (rich  for  his  day 
and  neighborhood) ;  but  save  for  his  good  horses  and  his 
observatory,  he  lived  as  though  he  were  poor.  He  gave  his 
son  Evert,  however,  the  best  education  (according  to  his  idea 
of  what  the  best  education  consisted  in),  which  money  and 
careful  attention  could  procure ;  but  he  did  not  send  him  to 
college,  and  at  sixteen  the  boy  was  put  regularly  to  work  for 
a  part  of  the  day  in  the  iron-foundery,  being  required  to  be 
gin  at  the  beginning  and  learn  the  whole  business  practically, 
from  the  keeping  of  books  to  the  proper  mixture  of  ores  for 
the  furnaces — those  furnaces  which  had  seemed  to  the  child 
almost  as  much  a  part  of  nature  as  the  sunshine  itself,  since 
he  had  seen  their  red  light  against  the  sky  at  night  ever  since 
he  was  born.  In  the  mean  time  his  education  in  books  went 
steadily  forward  also,  under  his  father's  eye — a  severe  one. 
Fortunately  the  lad  had  sturdy  health  and  nerves  which  were 
seldom  shaken,  so  that  these  double  tasks  did  not  break  him 
down.  For  one  thing,  Andrew  Winthrop  never  required,  or 
even  desired,  rapid  progress;  Evert  might  be  as  slow  as  he 
pleased,  if  he  would  but  be  thorough.  And  thorough  he  was. 
Even  if  he  had  not  been  naturally  inclined  towards  it,  he  would 
have  acquired  it  from  the  system  which  his  father  had  pur 
sued  with  him  from  babyhood ;  but  he  was  naturally  inclined 
towards  it ;  his  knowledge,  therefore,  as  far  as  it  went,  was 
very  complete. 

In  four  years  he  had  made  some  progress  in  the  secrets  of 
several  sorts  of  iron  and  several  ancient  languages.  In  six, 
he  could  manage  the  foundery  and  the  observatory  tolerably 
well.  In  the  ninth  year  his  part  of  the  foundery  went  of  it 
self,  or  seemed  to,  under  his  clear-headed  superintendence, 
while  he  ardently  gave  all  his  free  hours  to  the  studies  in 
science,  in  which  his  father  now  joined,  instead  of  directing, 
as  heretofore.  And  then,  in  the  tenth  year  of  this  busy, 
studious  life,  Andrew  Winthrop  had  died,  and  the  son  of 
twenty-six  had  found  himself  suddenly  free,  and  alone. 

He  had  never  longed  for  his  freedom,  he  had  never  thought 
about  it;  he  had  never  realized  that  his  life  was  austere. 
He  had  been  fond  of  his  father,  though  his  father  had  been 
more  intellectually  interested  in  him  as  a  boy  who  would  see 
in  all  probability  the  fulness  of  the  new  revelation  of  Science, 


126  EAST  ANGELS. 

than  fond  of  him  in  return.  Andrew  Winthrop's  greatest 
ambition  had  been  to  equip  his  son  so  thoroughly  that  lie 
would  be  able  to  take  advantage  of  this  new  light  immedi 
ately,  without  any  time  lost  in  bewilderment  or  hesitation  ; 
the  'prentice-work  would  all  have  been  done.  And  Evert, 
interested  and  busy,  leading  an  active  life  as  well  as  a  studi 
ous  one,  had  never  felt  discontent. 

The  evening  after  the  funeral  he  was  alone  in  the  old  house. 
Everything  had  been  set  in  order  again,  that  painful  order 
which  strikes  first  upon  the  hearts  of  the  mourners  when  they 
return  to  their  desolate  home,  an  order  which  seems  to  say : 
"  All  is  over ;  he  is  gone  and  will  return  to  you  no  more. 
You  must  now  take  up  the  burdens  of  life  again,  and  go 
forward."  The  silent  room  was  lonely,  Evert  read  a  while, 
but  could  not  fix  his  attention  ;  he  rose,  walked  about  aim 
lessly,  then  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  It  was  bit 
terly  cold,  there  was  deep  snow  outside ;  an  icy  wind  swayed 
the  boughs  of  a  naked  elm  which  stood  near  the  window. 
Against  the  dark  sky  to-night  the  familiar  light  was  not  vis 
ible  ;  the  furnaces  had  been  shut  down  out  of  respect  for  the 
dead.  For  the  first  time  there  stirred  in  Evert  Winthrop's 
mind  the  feeling  that  the  cold  was  cruel,  inhuman  ;  that  there 
was  a  conscious  element  in  it;  that  it  hated  man,  and  was 
savage  to  him ;  would  kill  him,  and  did  kill  him  when  it 
could.  The  house  seemed  in  league  with  this  enemy ;  in 
spite  of  the  bright  fire  the  chill  kept  creeping  in,  and  for  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  idea  that  he  ought 
to  go  out  and  cover  his  poor  old  father,  lying  there  helpless 
under  the  snow,  with  something  thick  and  warm.  He  roused 
himself  with  an  effort,  he  knew  that  these  were  unhealthy 
fancies ;  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  go  away  for  a 
while,  the  under-superintcndent  could  see  to  the  foundery  dur 
ing  his  absence,  which  would  not,  of  course,  be  long.  But 
the  next  day  he  learned  that  he  could  remain  away  for  as 
long  a  time  as  he  pleased — he  had  inherited  nearly  a  million. 

It  was  a  great  surprise.  Andrew  Winthrop  had  so  suc 
cessfully  concealed  the  amount  of  his  fortune  that  Evert  had 
supposed  that  the  foundery,  and  the  income  that  came  from 
'it,  a  moderate  one,  together  with  the  old  house  to  live  in, 
would  be  all.  Andrew  Winthrop's  intention  in  this  conceal1 


EAST  ANGELS.  127 

ment  had  been  to  bestow  upon  his  son,  so  far  as  he  could, 
during  his  youth,  a  personal  knowledge  of  life  as  seen  from 
the  side  of  earning  one's  own  living — a  knowledge  which  can 
never  be  acquired  at  second-hand,  and  which  he  considered 
inestimable,  giving  to  a  man  juster  views  of  himself  and  his 
fellow-men  than  anything  else  can. 

In  the  nine  years  that  had  passed  since  his  father's  death 
Evert  had,  as  has  been  stated,  quadrupled  the  fortune  he  had 
inherited. 

It  was  said — by  the  less  successful — that  Chance,  Luck, 
and  Opportunity  had  all  favored  him.  It  was  perhaps  Chance 
that  had  led  the  elder  Winthrop  in  the  beginning  to  invest 
some  hundreds  of  dollars  in  wild  lands  on  the  shore  of  Lake 
Superior — though  even  that  was  probably  foresight.  But  as 
for  Luck,  she  is  generally  nothing  but  clear-headedness.  And 
Opportunity  offers  herself,  sooner  or  later,  to  almost  all;  it 
is  only  that  so  few  of  us  recognize  her,  and  seize  the  advan 
tages  she  brings.  Winthrop  had  been  aided  by  two  things ; 
one  was  capital  to  begin  with ;  the  other  a  perfectly  untram 
melled  position.  He  had  no  one  to  think  of  but  himself. 

Early  in  the  spring  after  his  father's  death  he  journeyed 
westward,  looking  after  some  property,  and  decided  to  go  to 
Lake  Superior  and  see  that  land  also.  He  always  remem 
bered  his  arrival;  the  steamer  left  him  on  a  rough  pier  jut 
ting  out  into  the  dark  gray  lake;  on  the  shore,  stretching 
east  and  west,  was  pine  forest,  unbroken  save  where  in  the 
raw  clearing,  dotted  with  stumps,  rose  a  few  unpainted  wood 
en  houses,  and  the  rough  buildings  of  the  stamping-mills, 
their  great  wooden  legs  stamping  ponderously  on  iron  ore. 
His  land  was  in  the  so-called  town  ;  after  looking  at  it,  he 
went  out  to  the  mine  from  which  the  ore  came;  he  knew 
something  of  ores,  and  had  a  fancy  to  see  the  place.  He 
went  on  horseback,  following  a  wagon  track  through  the  wild 
forest.  The  snow  still  lay  in  the  hollows,  there  was  scarcely 
a  sign  of  spring;  the  mine  was  at  some  distance,  and  the 
road  very  bad ;  but  at  last  he  reached  it.  The  buildings  and 
machinery  of  the  struggling  little  company  were  poor  and 
insufficient;  but  few  men  were  employed,  the  superintendent 
had  a  discouraged  expression.  But  far  above  this  puny  lit 
tle  scratching  at  its  base  rose  "  the  mountain,"  as  it  was 


128  EAST  ANGELS. 

called ;  and  it  was  a  cliff-like  hill  of  iron  ore.  One  could 
touch  it,  feel  it;  it  was  veritable,  real.  To  Winthrop  it 
seemed  a  striking  picture  —  the  great  hill  of  metal,  thinly 
veiled  with  a  few  trees,  rising  towards  the  sky,  the  primitive 
forest  at  its  feet,  the  snow,  the  silence,  and  beyond,  the  sul 
len  lake  without  a  sail.  The  cliff  was  waiting* — it  had  waited 
for  ages ;  the  lake  was  waiting  too. 

Winthrop  took  a  large  portion  of  his  fortune  and  put  it 
into  this  mine.  A  new  company  was  formed,  but  he  him 
self  remained  the  principal  owner,  and  took  the  direction  into 
his  own  hands.  It  was  the  right  moment;  in  addition,  his 
direction  was  brilliant.  For  a  time  he  worked  excessively 
hard,  but  all  his  expectations  were  fulfilled  ;  by  means  of  this, 
and  one  or  two  other  enterprises  in  which  he  embarked  with 
the  same  mixture  of  bold  foresight  and  the  most  careful  at 
tention  to  details,  his  fortune  was  largely  increased. 

When  the  war  broke  out  he  was  abroad — his  first  complete 
vacation;  he  was  indulging  that  love  for  pictures  which  he  was 
rather  astonished  to  find  that  he  possessed.  He  carne  home, 
took  a  captain's  place  in  a  company  of  volunteers,  went  to 
the  front,  and  served  throughout  the  war.  Immediately  after 
the  restoration  of  peace,  he  had  gone  abroad  again.  And  he 
had  come  back  this  second  time  principally  to  disentangle  from 
a  web  of  embarrassments  the  affairs  of  a  cousin  of  his  fa 
ther's,  David  Winthrop  by  name,  whom  he  had  left  in  charge 
of  the  foundery  which  he  had  once  had  charge  of,  himself. 
Having  some  knowledge  of  foundcrics,  David  was  to  super 
intend  this  one,  and  have  a  sufficient  share  of  the  profits  to 
help  him  maintain  his  family  of  seven  sweet,  gentle,  ineffi 
cient  daughters,  of  all  ages  from  two  to  eighteen,  each  with 
the  same  abundant  flaxen  hair  and  pretty  blue  eyes,  the  same 
pale  oval  cheeks  and  stooping  shoulders,  and  a  mother  over 
them  more  inefficient  and  gentle  and  stooping-shouldered 
still — the  very  sort  of  a  quiverful,  as  ill-natured  (and  richer) 
neighbors  were  apt  to  remark,  that  such  an  incompetent  creat 
ure  as  David  Winthrop  would  be  sure  to  possess.  This  cous 
in  had  been  a  trial  to  Andrew  Winthrop  all  his  life.  Da 
vid  was  a  well-educated  man,  and  he  had  a  most  lovable 
disposition ;  but  he  had  the  incurable  habit  of  postponing 
(with  the  best  intentions)  until  another  time  anything  iin- 


EAST  ANGELS.  129 

portant  which  lay  before  him ;  the  unimportant  things  he 
did  quite  cheerily.  If  it  were  but  reading  the  morning's  pa 
per,  David  would  be  sure  to  not  quite  get  to  the  one  article 
which  was  of  consequence,  but  to  read  all  the  others  first  in 
his  slow  way,  deferring  that  one  to  a  more  convenient  season 
when  he  could  give  to  it  his  best  attention ;  of  course  the 
more  convenient  season  never  came.  Mixed  with  this  con 
stant  procrastination  there  was  a  personal  activity  which  was 
amusingly  misleading.  Leaving  the  house  in  the  morning, 
David  would  walk  to  his  foundery,  a  distance  of  a  mile,  with 
the  most  rapid  step  possible  which  was  not  a  run  ;  the  swing 
of  his  long  arms,  the  slight  frown  of  preoccupation  from  bus 
iness  cares  (it  must  have  been  that),  would  have  led  any  one 
to  believe  that,  once  his  office  reached,  this  man  would  devote 
himself  to  his  work  with  the  greatest  energy,  would  make 
every  moment  tell.  But  once  his  office  reached,  this  man 
devoted  himself  to  nothing,  that  is,  to  nothing  of  impor 
tance  ;  he  arrived  breathless,  and  hung  np  his  hat ;  he  rubbed 
his  hands,  and  walked  about  the  room ;  he  glanced  over  the 
letters,  and  made  plans  for  answering  them,  pleasing  himself 
with  the  idea  of  the  vigorous  things  he  should  say,  and 
changing  the  form  of  his  proposed  sentences  in  his  own 
mind  more  than  once;  for  David  wrote  a  very  good  letter, 
and  was  proud  of  it.  Then  he  sharpened  all  the  pencils  in 
dustriously,  taking  pains  to  give  each  one  a  very  fine  point. 
He  jotted  down  in  neat  figures  with  one  of  them,  little  sums 
— sums  which  had  no  connection  with  the  foundery,  however, 
but  concerned  themselves  with  something  he  had  read  the 
night  before,  perhaps,  as  the  probable  population  of  London 
in  A.D.  1966,  or  the  estimated  value  of  a  ton  of  coal  in  the 
year  3000.  Then  he  would  do  a  little  work  on  his  plan 
(David  made  beautiful  plans)  for  the  house  which  he  hoped 
some  day  to  build.  And  he  would  stare  out  of  the  window 
by  the  hour,  seeing  nothing  in  particular,  but  having  the 
vague  idea  that  as  he  was  in  his  office,  and  at  his  desk,  he 
was  attending  to  business  as  other  men  attended  to  it;  what 
else  was  an  office  for  ? 

Evert,  as  a  boy,  had  always  felt  an  interest  in  this  whimsi 
cal  cousin,  who  came  every  now  and  then  to  see  his  father, 
with  some  new  enterprise  (David  was  strong  in  enterprises) 

9 


130  EAST  ANGELS. 

to  consult  him  about — an  enterprise  which  was  infallibly  to 
bring  in  this  time  a  large  amount  of  money.  But  this  time 
was  never  David's  time.  And  in  the  mean  while  his  daugh 
ters  continued  to  appear  and  grow.  Evert,  left  master,  had 
had  more  faith  in  David  than  his  father  had  had ;  or  per 
haps  it  was  more  charity  ;  for  his  cousin  had  always  been  a 
source  of  refreshment  to  him  —  this  humorous,  sweet-tem 
pered  man,  who,  with  his  gray-sprinkled  hair  and  thin  tem 
ples,  his  well-known  incompetency,  and  his  helpless  family 
behind  him,  had  yet  no  more  care  on  his  face  than  a  child 
has,  not  half  so  much  as  Evert  himself,  with  his  youth  and 
health,  his  success  and  his  fortune,  to  aid  him.  But,  curious 
ly  enough,  David  was  quite  well  aware  of  his  own  faults; 
his  appreciation  of  them,  indeed,  had  given  him  a  manner  of 
walking  slightly  sidewise,  his  right  shoulder  and  right  leg  a 
little  behind,  as  though  conscious  of  their  master's  inefficien 
cy  and  ashamed  of  it.  For  the  same  reason  he  chronically 
hung  his  head  a  little  as  he  walked,  and,  if  addressed,  looked 
off  at  a  distance  mildly  instead  of  at  the  person  who  was 
speaking  to  him.  But  though  thus  conscious  generally  of 
his  failings,  David  was  never  beyond  a  sly  joke  about  them 
and  himself.  It  was  the  way  in  which  he  laughed  over  these 
jokes  (they  were  always  good  ones)  which  had  endeared  him 
to  his  younger  cousin  :  there  was  such  a  delightful  want  of 
worldly  wisdom  about  the  man. 

Having  disentangled  David,  refunded  his  losses,  and  set 
him  going  again  in  a  small  way,  Evert  had  come  southward. 
He  would  have  preferred  to  go  back  to  Europe  for  a  tour  in 
Spain;  but  he  felt  sure  that  David  would  entangle  himself 
afresh  before  long  (David  had  the  most  inscrutable  ways  of  en 
tangling  himself),  and  that,  unless  he  were  willing  to  contin 
ually  refund,  he  should  do  better  to  remain  within  call,  at 
least  for  the  present.  In  the  early  spring  another  relative  on 
his  father's  side,  a  third  cousin,  was  to  add  himself  to  the  part 
nership,  and  this  young  man,  Evert  hoped,  would  not  only 
manage  the  foundery,  but  manage  David  as  well ;  when  once 
this  arrangement  had  been  effected,  the  owner  of  the  foundery 
would  be  free. 

All  this  was  very  characteristic  of  Evert  Winthrop.  He 
could  easily  have  given  up  all  business  enterprises ;  he  could 


EAST  ANGELS.  131 

have  invested  his  money  safely  and  washed  his  hands  of  that 
sort  of  care.  To  a  certain  extent  he  had  done  this ;  but  he 
wished  to  help  David,  and  so  he  kept  the  foundery,  he  wished 
to  help  two  or  three  other  persons,  and  so  he  retained  other 
interests.  This,  at  least,  was  what  he  said  to  himself,  and  it 
was  true ;  yet  the  foundations  lay  deeper — lay  in  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  born  into  the  world  with  a  heavy  endow 
ment  of  energy ;  quiet  as  he  appeared,  he  had  more  than  he 
knew  what  to  do  with,  and  was  obliged  to  find  occupation 
for  it.  During  boyhood  this  energy  had  gone  into  the  dou 
ble  tasks  of  education  in  books  and  in  iron  which  his  father 
had  imposed  upon  him ;  in  young  manhood  it  had  gone  into 
the  scientific  studies  in  which  his  father  had  shared.  Later 
had  come  the  brilliant  crowded  years  of  the  far-seeing  con 
ception  and  vigorous  execution  which  had  given  him  his 
largely  increased  wealth.  Then  the  war  occupied  him;  it 
occupied  fifty  millions  of  people  as  well.  After  it  was  over, 
and  he  had  gone  abroad  a  second  time,  he  had  not  been  an 
idle  traveller,  though  always  a  tranquil  one. 

The  truth  was,  he  could  not  lead  a  purely  contemplative 
life.  It  was  not  that  he  desired  to  lead  such  a  life,  or  that 
he  admired  it;  it  was  simply  that  he  knew  he  should  never 
be  able  to  do  it,  even  if  he  should  try,  and  the  impossibili 
ty,  as  usual,  tempted  him.  There  must  be  something  very 
charming  in  it  (that  is,  if  one  had  no  duties  which  forbade 
it),  this  full,  passive,  receptive  enjoyment  of  anything  delight 
ful,  a  fine  picture,  for  instance,  or  a  beautiful  view,  the  sun 
shine,  the  sea;  even  the  angler's  contented  quiescence  on  a 
green  bank  was  part  of  it.  These  pleasures  he  knew  he 
could  never  have  in  their  full  sweetness,  though  he  could  im 
agine  them  perfectly,  even  acutely.  It  was  not  that  he  was 
restless;  he  was  the  reverse.  It  was  not  that  he  liked  vio 
lent  exercise,  violent  action  ;  he  liked  nothing  violent.  But, 
instead  of  sitting  in  the  sunshine,  his  instinct  was  to  get  a 
good  horse  and  ride  in  it ;  instead  of  lounging  beside  a  blue 
sea,  he  liked  better  to  be  sailing  a  yacht  over  it ;  instead  of 
sitting  contemplatively  on  a  green  bank,  holding  a  fishing- 
rod,  he  would  be  more  apt  to  shoulder  a  gun  and  walk,  con 
templatively  too,  perhaps,  for  long  miles,  in  pursuit  of  game. 
In  all  this  he  was  thoroughly  American. 


132  EAST  ANGELS. 

He  had  a  great  love  for  art,  and  a  strong  love  for  beauty, 
which  his  studies  in  mathematics  and  science  had  never  in 
the  least  deadened.  As  regarded  determination,  he  was  a 
very  strong  man ;  but  he  was  so  quiet  and  calm  that  it  was 
only  when  one  came  in  conflict  with  him  that  his  strength 
was  perceived ;  and  there  were  not  many  occasions  for  com 
ing  in  conflict  with  him  now,  he  was  no  longer  directing  large 
enterprises.  In  private  life,  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  advanc 
ing  opinions  for  the  rest  of  the  world  to  accept;  he. left  that 
to  the  people  of  one  idea. 

On  the  present  occasion  he  rode  over  the  pine  barrens  for 
miles,  every  now  and  then  enjoying  a  brisk  gallop.  After  a 
while  he  saw  a  phaeton  at  a  distance,  moving  apparently  at 
random  over  the  green  waste ;  but  he  had  learned  enough  of 
the  barrens  by  this  time  to  know  that  it  was  following  a  road 
— a  road  which  he  could  not  see.  There  was  only  one  phae 
ton  in  Gracias,  the  one  he  himself  had  sent  for ;  he  rode 
across,  therefore,  to  speak  to  his  aunt. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SHE  was  returning  with  Margaret  from  her  drive,  and 
looked  very  comfortable  ;  with  a  cushion  behind  her  and  a 
light  rug  over  her  lap,  she  sat  leaning  back  under  her  lace- 
trimmed  parasol. 

*'  I  enjoy  these  drives  so  much,"  she  said  to  her  nephew 
in  her  agreeable  voice.  "  The  barrens  themselves,  to  be  sure, 
cannot  be  called  beautiful,  though  I  believe  Margaret  main 
tains  that  they  have  a  fascination ;  but  the  air  is  delicious." 

"Do  you  really  find  them  fascinating?"  said  Winthrop  to 
Margaret. 

"Extremely  so;  I  drive  over  them  for  miles  every  day, 
yet  never  want  to  come  in ;  I  always  long  to  go  farther." 

"Oh,  well,  there's  an  end  to  them  somewhere,  I  suppose,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Rutherford ;  "the  whole  State  isn't  so  very  broad, 
you  know ;  you  would  come  out  at  the  Gulf  of  Mexico." 

"  I  don't  want  to  come  out,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  want  to 
stay  in  ;  I  want  to  drive  here  forever." 


EAST  ANGELS.  133 

"  We  shall  wake  some  fine  morning,  and  find  yon  gone," 
said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "like  the  girl  in  the 'Dismal  Swamp,' 
you  know : 

" '  Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  she  speeds — ' 
I've  forgotten  the  rest." 

"'Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
And  many  a  fen  where  the  serpent  feeds, 
And  man  never  trod  before,'  " 

said  Winthrop,  finishing  the  quotation.  "The  last  isn't  true 
of  the  barrens,  however,  for  man  has  trod  here  pretty  exten 
sively." 

"  You  mean  Indians  ?"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  rather  as 
though  they  were  not  men,  as  indeed  she  did  not  think  they 
were.  She  yawned,  tapping  her  lips  two  or  three  times  dur 
ing  the  process  with  her  delicately  gloved  hand,  as  people 
will,  under  the  impression,  apparently,  that  they  are  conceal 
ing  the  sign  of  fatigue.  Mrs.  Rutherford's  yawn,  however, 
was  not  a  sign  of  fatigue,  it  was  an  indication  of  sheer  bodi 
ly  content ;  the  soft  air  and  the  lazy  motion  of  the  phaeton 
were  so  agreeable  to  her  that,  if  she  had  been  imaginative, 
she  would  have  declared  that  the  Lotus-eaters  must  have 
yawned  perpetually,  and  that  Florida  was  evidently  the  land 
of  their  abode. 

"You  look  too  comfortable  to  talk,  Aunt  Katrina,"  said 
Winthrop,  amused  by  the  drowsy  tones  of  her  voice  ;  "  I 
think  you  would  rather  be  rid  of  me.  I  will  go  off  and  have 
one  more  gallop,  and  be  home  before  you." 

Mrs.  Rutherford  smiled  an  indolent  good -by;  Margaret 
Harold  looked  straight  before  her.  Winthrop  turned  off  to 
the  right,  and  was  soon  lost  to  view. 

He  pulled  up  after  a  while,  and  let  his  horse  walk  slowly 
along  the  trail ;  he  was  thinking  of  Margaret  Harold.  He 
was  always  seeing  her  now,  it  could  not  be  otherwise  so  long 
as  she  continued  to  live  with  his  aunt.  But  he  said  to  himself 
that  he  should  never  really  like  her,  and  what  he  was  think 
ing  of  at  present  was  whether  or  not  she  had  perceived  this. 

She  was  not  easy  to  read.  Just  now,  for  instance,  when 
she  had  begun  to  speak  of  the  pine  barrens,  and  to  speak 
with  (for  her)  a  good  deal  of  warmth,  had  he  not  perhaps 


134  EAST  ANGELS. 

bad  something-  to  do  with  her  falling  into  complete  silence 
immediately  afterwards?  He  had  answered,  of  course;  he 
had  done  what  was  necessary  to  keep  up  the  conversation  ; 
still,  perhaps  she  had  seen — perhaps —  Well,  he  could  not 
help  it  if  she  had,  or  rather  he  did  not  care  to  help  it.  What 
ever  she  might  be  besides,  quiet,  well-bred,  devoted  to  the  wel 
fare  of  his  aunt,  she  was  still  in  his  opinion  so  completely,  so 
essentially  wrong  in  some  of  her  ideas,  and  these  in  a  woman 
the  most  important,  that  his  feeling  towards  her  at  heart  was 
one  of  sternest  disapproval ;  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  And 
she  held  so  obstinately  to  her  mistakes!  That  was  the  worst 
of  her — her  obstinacy ;  it  was  so  tranquil.  It  was  founded, 
of  course,  upon  her  immovable  self-esteem  —  a  very  usual 
foundation  for  tranquillity  !  No  doubt  Lanse  had  required 
forgiveness,  and  even  a  great  deal  of  forgiveness ;  there  had, 
indeed,  been  no  period  of  Lanse's  life  when  he  had  not  made 
large  demands  on  this  quality  from  those  who  were  nearest 
him.  But  was  it  not  a  wife's  part  to  forgive  ?  Lanse  could 
have  been  led  by  his  affections,  probably,  his  better  side ;  it 
had  always  been  so  with  Lanse.  But  instead  of  trying  to  in 
fluence  him  in  that  way,  this  wife  had  set  herself  up  in  oppo 
sition  to  him — the  very  last  thing  he  would  stand.  She  had 
probably  been  narrow  from  the  beginning,  narrow  and  punc 
tilious.  Later  she  had  been  shocked ;  then  had  hardened  in 
it.  She  was  evidently  a  cold  woman ;  in  addition,  she  was 
self-righteous,  self-complacent ;  such  women  were  always  per 
fectly  satisfied  with  themselves,  they  had  excellent  reasons  for 
everything.  Of  course  she  had  never  loved  her  husband ;  if 
she  had  loved  him  she  could  not  have  left  him  so  easily,  with 
in  a  few  months — less  than  a  year — after  their  marriage.  And 
though  seven  years  had  now  passed  since  that  separation,  she 
had  never  once,  so  far  as  Winthrop  knew,  sought  to  return  to 
him,  or  asked  him  to  return  to  her. 

The  marriage  of  Lansing  Harold  and  Margaret  Cruger  had 
taken  place  while  Winthrop  was  abroad.  When  he  came 
home  soon  afterwards,  at  the  breaking  out  of  the  war,  he 
found  that  the  young  wife  of  nineteen  had  left  her  husband, 
had  returned  to  live  with  Mrs.  Rutherford,  with  whom  she  had 
lived  for  a  short  time  before  her  marriage.  She  had  come 
to  Mrs.  Rutherford  upon  the  death  of  her  grandmother,  Mrs. 


EAST  ANGELS.  135 

Cruger ;  this  aunt  by  marriage  was  now  her  nearest  relative, 
and  this  aunt's  house  was  to  be  her  home.  To  this  home  she 
had  now  returned,  and  here  it  was  that  Evert  first  made  her 
acquaintance.  Lanse,  meanwhile,  had  gone  to  Italy. 

There  had  been  no  legal  separation,  Mrs.  Rutherford  told 
him  ;  probably  there  never  would  be  one,  for  Margaret  did  not 
approve  of  them.  Lanse, too, would  probably  disapprove;  they 
were  well  matched  in  their  disapprovals !  It  was  not  known 
by  society  at  large,  Mrs.  Rutherford  continued,  that  there  had 
been  any  irrevocable  disagreement  between  the  two;  society  at 
large  probably  supposed  it  to  be  one  of  those  cases,  so  com 
mon  nowadays,  where  husband  and  wife,  being  both  fond  of 
travelling,  have  discovered  that  they  enjoy  their  travels  more 
when  separated  than  when  together,  as  (unless  there  happens 
to  be  a  really  princely  fortune)  individual  tastes  are  so  apt  to 
be  sacrificed  in  travelling,  on  one  side  or  the  other.  Take  the 
one  item  of  trains,  Mrs.  Rutherford  went  on ;  some  persons 
liked  to  get  over  the  ground  by  night,  and  were  bored  to 
death  by  a  long  journey  by  day ;  others  became  so  exhausted 
by  one  "night  of  travel  that  the  whole  of  the  next  day  was 
spent  recovering  from  it.  Then  there  were  people  who  pre 
ferred  to  reach  the  station  at  the  last  minute,  people  who  liked 
to  run  and  rush  ;  and  others  whose  day  was  completely  spoil 
ed  by  any  such  frantic  haste  at  the  beginning.  The  most  ami 
able  of  men  sometimes  developed  a  curious  obstinacy,  when 
travelling,  concerning  the  small  matter  of  which  seat  in  a  rail 
way-carriage  the  wife  should  take.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  Mrs. 
Rutherford  thought  it  natural  that  husbands  and  wives,  if 
possessed  of  strong  wills,  should  travel  separately ;  the  small 
differences,  whicirmade  the  trouble,  did  not  come  up  in  the 
regular  life  at  home.  It  was  very  common  for  American 
wives  to  be  in  Europe  without  their  husbands;  in  the  case 
of  the  Harolds,  it  was  simply  that  the  husband  had  gone ; 
this  at  least  was  probably  what  society  supposed. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  further  added  that  her  listener,  Winthrop, 
was  not  to  suppose  that  Margaret  herself  had  ever  discussed 
these  subjects  with  her,  or  'had  ever  discussed  Lanse ;  his 
name  was  never  mentioned  by  his  wife,  and  when  she,  the 
aunt,  mentioned  it,  her  words  were  received  in  silence ;  there 
was  no  reply. 


136  EAST  ANGELS. 

"I  consider,"  continued  Mrs.  Rutherford,  warming  with 
her  subject — "I  consider  Margaret's  complete  silence  the 
most  extraordinary  thing  I  have  ever  known  in  my  life. 
Living  with  me  as  she  has  done  all  these  years,  shouldn't  you 
suppose,  wouldn't  any  one  suppose,  that  at  some  time  or 
other  she  would  have  talked  it  over  with  me,  given  me  some 
explanation,  no  matter  how  one-sided — would  have  tried  to 
justify  herself?  Very  well,  then,  she  never  has.  From  first 
to  last,  in  answer  to  my  inquiries  (for  of  course  I  have  made 
them),  she  has  only  said  that  she  would  rather  not  talk  about 
it,  that  the  subject  was  painful  to  her.  Painful !  I  wonder 
what  she  thinks  it  is  to  me!  She  makes  me  perfectly  mis 
erable,  Evert — perfectly  miserable." 

"Yet  you  keep  her  with  you,"  answered  Winthrop,  not 
taking  Airs.  Harold's  side  exactly,  but  the  side  of  justice, 
perhaps;  for  he  had  seen  how  much  his  aunt's  comfort  de 
pended  upon  Margaret's  attention,  though  he  was  not  pre 
pared  to  admit  that  it  depended  upon  that  entirely,  as  Garda 
Thome  had  declared. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "  I  keep  her  with  me, 
as  you  say.  But  my  house  was  really  her  home,  you  know, 
before  her  marriage,  and  of  course  it  is  quite  the  best  place 
for  her  now,  as  things  are ;  if  she  will  not  remain  with  her 
husband,  at  least  her  continuing  to  live  always  with  her  hus 
band's  aunt,  his  almost  mother,  is  the  next  best  thing  that 
could  be  arranged  for  her.  Appearances  are  preserved,  you 
know ;  and  Margaret  has  a  great  regard  for  appearances." 

"  Possibly  too  great,"  Winthrop  answered.  But  his  sar 
casm  was  not  intended  to  apply  to  the  wife's  regard  for  ap 
pearances —  he  also  had  a  regard  for  appearances  —  it  was 
intended  to  apply  to  the  wife  herself.  His  idea  of  her  was 
that  she  had  argued  it  all  out  carefully  in  her  own  mind 
(she  was  not  a  person  who  acted  on  impulse),  and  had  taken 
her  stand  upon  what  she  considered  irrefragable  grounds.  In 
other  words,  she  had  sat  apart  and  judged  her  husband.  In 
stead  of  trying  to  win  him  or  to  keep  him,  she  had  made 
little  rules  for  him  probably,  and  no  doubt  very  good  little 
rules  of  their  kind ;  but  Lanse  had  of  course  broken  them, 
he  wasn't  a  man  for  rules;  a  man  of  his  age,  too,  would 
hardly  keep  the  rules  made  by  a  girl  of  nineteen.  After  re- 


EAST  ANGELS.  137 

peatcd  breakage  of  all  her  well-regulated  little  canons,  she 
had  withdrawn  herself,  and  kept  aloof;  she  had  held  herself 
superior  to  him,  and  had  let  him  see  that  she  did.  Winthrop 
could  imagine  the  effect  of  all  this  upon  Lanse ! 

But  no  matter  what  Lanse  had  done  that  annoyed  her 
(and  it  was  highly  probable  that  he  had  done  a  good  deal), 
her  duty  as  a  wife,  in  Winthrop's  opinion,  clearly  was,  and 
would  to  the  end  of  time  continue,  to  remain  with  her  hus 
band — not  to  leave  him,  unless  her  life  or  the  welfare  of  her 
children  should  be  in  actual  danger ;  that  was  what  marriage 
meant.  The  welfare  of  children  included  a  great  deal,  of 
course;  he  held  that  a  wife  was  justified  in  separating  them 
from  a  father  whose  influence  was  injurious.  But  in  this 
case  there  had  been  no  questions  of  the  sort,  Lanse  was  not 
violent,  and  there  were  no  children  to  think  of.  There  was, 
indeed,  nothing  very  wrong  about  Lanse  save  that  he  was 
self-willed,  and  did  quite  as  he  pleased  on  all  occasions.  But 
what  he  did  was,  after  all,  nothing  very  terrible;  he  was 
willing  that  other  people  should  do  as  they  pleased,  also;  he 
was  not  a  petty  tyrant.  But  this  state  of  things  had  not 
satisfied  his  wife,  who  wished  other  people,  her  husband  first 
of  all,  to  do  as  she  pleased.  Why  ?  Because  she  was  always 
sure  that  she  was  right!  This  slender,  graceful  woman  with 
the  dark  blue  eyes  and  clear  low  voice  had  a  will  as  strong 
as  her  husband's.  She  had  found,  probably,  that  her  tran 
quillity  and  what  she  called  her  dignity — both  inexpressibly 
dear  to  her — were  constantly  endangered  by  this  unmanage 
able  husband,  who  paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to  her  axioms 
as  to  what  was  "  right  "  and  "  not  right,"  what  was  "  usual" 
(Lanse  was  never  usual)  and  "  not  usual,"  but  strode  through 
and  over  them  all  as  though  they  did  not  exist.  His  course, 
indeed,  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  preserve  unbroken  that 
serenity  of  temper  which  was  her  highest  aspiration  ;  for  she 
was  exactly  the  woman  to  have  an  ideal  of  that  sort,  and  to 
endeavor  to  live  up  to  it;  it  was  not  improbable  that  she 
offered  her  prayers  to  that  effect  every  night. 

All  this  was  a  very  harsh  estimate.  But  Winthrop's  be 
liefs  on  these  subjects  were  rooted  in  the  deepest  convictions 
lie  possessed.  Such  a  character  as  the  one  he  attributed  to 
Margaret  Harold  was  to  him  insufferable ;  he  could  endure 


138  EAST  ANGELS. 

easily  a  narrow  mind,  if  with  it  there  was  a  warm  heart  and 
unselfish  disposition,  but  a  narrow  mind  combined  with  a 
cold,  unmoved  nature  and  impregnable  self-conceit  —  this 
seemed  to  him  a  combination  that  made  a  woman  (it  was 
always  a  woman)  simply  odious. 

These  things  all  passed  through  his  thoughts  again  as  he 
rode  over  the  barrens.  He  recalled  Lanse's  handsome  face  as 
he  used  to  see  it  in  childhood.  Lanse  was  five  years  older 
than  the  little  Evert,  tall,  strong,  full  of  life,  a  hero  to  the  lad 
from  New  England,  who  was  brave  enough  in  his  way  but 
who  had  not  been  encouraged  in  boldness,  nor  praised  when 
he  had  been  lawless  and  daring.  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  a 
phrase  about  Lanse — that  he  was  "  just  like  all  the  Harolds." 
The  Harolds,  in  truth,  were  a  handsome  race ;  they  all  re 
sembled  each  other,  though  some  of  them  were  not  so  hand 
some  as  the  rest.  A  good  many  of  them  had  married  their 
cousins.  They  were  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  well  made, 
but  inclined  to  portliness  towards  middle-age;  they  had 
good  features,  the  kind  of  .very  well  cut  outline,  with  short 
upper  lip  and  full  lower  one,  whose  fault,  if  it  has  a  fault,  is 
a  tendency  to  blankness  of  expression  after  youth  is  past. 
Their  hair  was  very  dark,  almost  black,  and  they  had  thick 
brown  beards  of  rather  a  lighter  hue — beards  which  they 
kept  short;  their  eyes  were  beautiful,  dark  brown  in  hue, 
animated,  with  yellow  lights  in  them  ;  their  complexions  had 
a  rich  darkness,  with  strong  ivory  tints  beneath.  They  had 
an  appearance  of  looking  over  the  heads  of  everybody  else, 
which,  among  many  noticeable  things  about  them,  was  the 
most  noticeable — it  was  so  entirely  natural.  Because  it  was 
so  natural  nobody  had  tried  to  analyze  it,  to  find  out  of  what 
it  consisted.  The  Harolds  were  tall ;  but  it  was  not  their 
height.  They  were  broad-shouldered;  but  there  were  men 
of  the  same  mould  everywhere.  It  was  not  that  they  ex 
panded  their  chests  and  threw  their  heads  back,  so  that  their 
eyes,  when  cast  down,  rested  upon  a  projecting  expanse  of 
shirt  front,  with  the  watch-chain  far  in  advance  ;  the  Harolds 
had  no  such  airs  of  inflated  frog.  They  stood  straight  on 
their  feet,  but  nothing  more;  their  well-moulded  chins  were 
rather  drawn  in  than  thrust  out;  they  never  posed;  there 
was  never  any  trace  of  attitude.  Yet,  in  any  large  assem- 


EAST  ANGELS.  139 

Wage,  if  there  were  any  of  them  present,  they  were  sure  to 
have  this  appearance  of  looking  over  other  people's  heads. 
It  was  accompanied  by  a  careless,  good-humored,  unpretend 
ing  ease,  which  was  almost  benevolent,  and  which  was  strik 
ingly  different  from  the  self-assertive  importance  of  more 
nervous  (and  smaller)  men. 

As  a  family  the  Harolds  had  not  been  loved ;  they  were 
too  self-willed  for  that.  But  they  were  witty,  they  could  be 
agreeable ;  in  houses  where  it  pleased  them  to  be  witty  and 
agreeable,  they  were  the  most  welcome  of  guests.  The  small 
things  of  life,  what  they  called  the  "details,"  the  tiresome 
little'cares  and  responsibilities,  annoyances,  engagements,  and 
complications,  these  they  shed  from  themselves  as  a  shaggy 
dog  sheds  water  from  his  coat — they  shook  them  off.  Peo 
ple5  who  did  not  love  them  (and  these  were  many)  remarked 
that  this  was  all  very  pretty,  but  that  it  was  also  very  selfish. 
The  Harolds,  if  their  attention  had  been  called  to  it,  would 
have  considered  the  adjective  as  another  of  the  "  details," 
and  would  have  shaken  that  off  also. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  in  her  youth  never  could  help  admiring 
the  Harolds  (there  were  a  good  many  of  them,  almost  all 
men ;  there  was  but  seldom  a  daughter) ;  when,  therefore, 
her  sister  Hilda  married  Lansing  of  the  name,  she  had  an 
•odd  sort  of  pride  in  it,  although  everybody  said  that  Hilda 
would  not  be  happy;  the  Harolds  seldom  made  good  hus 
bands.  It  was  not  that  they  were  harassing  or  brutal ;  they 
were  simply  supremely  inattentive.  In  this  case,  however, 
there  had  been  little  opportunity  to  verify  or  prove  false  the 
expectation,  as  both  Lansing  Harold  and  his  wife  had  died 
within  two  years  after  their  marriage,  the  wife  last,  leaving 
(as  her  sister,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  did  later)  a  son  but  a  few 
days  old.  The  small  Lansing  was  adopted  by  his  aunt. 
Through  childhood  he  was  a  noble-looking  little  fellow,  never 
governed  or  taught  to  govern  himself ;  he  grew  rapidly  into 
a  large,  manly  lad,  active  and  strong,  fond  of  out-of-door 
sports  and  excelling  in  them,  having  the  quick  wit  of  his 
family,  which,  however  (like  them),  he  was  not  inclined  to 
bestow  upon  all  comers  for  their  entertainment ;  he  preferred 
to  keep  it  for  his  own. 

Evert  remembered  with  a  smile  the  immense  admiration 


140  EAST  ANGELS. 

he  had  felt  for  his  big  cousin,  the  excited  anticipation  with 
which  he  had  looked  forward  to  meeting  him  when  he  went, 
twice  a  year,  to  see  his  aunt.  The  splendid  physical  strength 
of  the  elder  boy,  his  liberty,  his  dogs  and  his  gun,  his  horse 
and  boat — all  these  filled  the  sparingly  indulged  little  New 
England  child  with  the  greatest  wonder  and  delight.  Most 
of  all  did  he  admire  the  calm  absolutism  of  Lanse's  will, 
combined  as  it  was  with  good-nature,  manliness,  and  even 
to  a  certain  degree,  or  rather  in  a  certain  way,  with  gener 
osity — generosity  as  he  had  thought  it  then,  careless  liberality 
as  he  knew  it  now.  When  Evert  was  ten  and  Lanse  fifteen, 
Lanse  had  decided  that  his  cousin  must  learn  to  shoot,  that 
he  was  quite  old  enough  for  that  accomplishment.  Evert 
recalled  the  mixture  of  fear  and  pride  which  had  filled  his 
small  heart  to  suffocation  when  Lanse  put  the  gun  into  his 
hands  in  the  remote  field  behind  Mrs.  Rutherford's  country- 
house  which  he  had  selected  for  the  important  lesson.  His 
fear  was  not  occasioned  so  much  by  the  gun  as  by  the  keen 
realization  that  if  his  father  should  question  him,  upon  his 
return  home,  he  should  certainly  feel  himself  obliged  to  tell 
of  his  new  knowledge,  and  the  revelation  might  put  an  end 
to  these  happy  visits.  Fortunately  his  father  did  not  ques 
tion  him  ;  he  seldom  spoke  to  the  boy  of  anything  that  had 
happened  during  these  absences,  which  he  seemed  to  con 
sider  necessary  evils — so  much  waste  time.  On  this  occa 
sion  how  kind  Lanse  had  been,  how  he  had  encouraged  and 
helped  him — yes,  and  scolded  him  a  little  too ;  and  how  he 
had  comforted  him  when  the  force  of  the  discharge  had 
knocked  the  little  sportsman  over  on  the  ground  rather 
heavily.  A  strong  affection  for  Lanse  had  grown  up  with 
the  younger  boy ;  and  it  remained  with  him  still,  though 
now  not  so  blind  a  liking;  he  knew  Lanse  better.  They 
had  been  widely  separated,  and  for  a  long  time ;  they  had 
led  such  different  lives !  Evert  had  worked  steadily  for  ten 
long,  secluded  years;  later  he  had  worked  still  harder,  but 
in  another  way,  being  now  his  own  master,  and  engaged  in 
guiding  the  enterprises  he  had  undertaken  through  many 
obstacles  and  hazards  towards  success.  These  \7ears  of  un 
broken  toil  for  Evert  had  been  spent  by  Lanse  in  his  own 
amusement,  though  one  could  not  say  spent  in  idleness  ex- 


EAST  ANGELS.  141 

actly,  as  lie  was  one  of  the  most  active  of  men.  He  had 
been  much  of  the  time  in  Europe.  But  he  came  home  for 
brief  visits  now  and  then,  when  his  aunt  besought  him;  she 
adored  him  —  she  had  always  adored  him;  she  was  never 
tired  of  admiring  his  proportions,  what  seemed  to  her  his 
good  -  nature,  his  Harold  wit,  his  poise  of  head ;  she  was 
never  so  happy  as  when  she  had  him  staying  with  her  in  her 
own  house.  True,  he  had  his  own  way  of  living;  but  it  was 
such  a  simple  way  !  He  was  not  in  the  least  a  gourmand — 
none  of  the  Harolds  were  that;  he  liked  only  the  simplest 
dishes,  and  always  demanded  them ;  he  wanted  the  windows 
open  at  all  seasons  when  the  snow  was  not  actually  on  the 
ground;  he  could  not  endure  questioning,  in  fact,  he  never 
answered  questions  at  all. 

Returning  for  one  of  these  visits  at  home,  Lanse  had 
found  with  his  aunt  a  young  girl,  Margaret  Cruger,  a  niece 
of  her  husband's.  Evert  smiled  now  as  he  recalled  certain 
expressions  of  the  letter  which  his  aunt  had  written  to  him, 
the  other  nephew,  announcing  Lanse's  engagement  to  Miss 
Cruger ;  in  the  light  of  retrospect  they  had  rather  a  sarcastic 
sound.  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  written  that  Margaret  was  very 
young,  to  be  sure — not  quite  eighteen — but  that  she  was 
very  gentle  and  sweet.  That  it  was  time  Lanse  should  mar 
ry,  he  was  thirty-two — though  in  her  opinion  that  was  ex 
actly  the  right  age,  for  a  man  knew  then  what  he  really 
wanted,  and  was  not  apt  to  make  a  mistake.  That  she 
hoped  the  girl  would  make  him  the  sort  of  wife  he  needed ; 
for  one  thing,  she  was  so  young  that  she  would  not  set  up 
her  opinion  in  opposition  to  his,  probably,  and  with  Lanse 
that  would  be  important.  Mrs.  Rutherford  furthermore 
thought  that  the  girl  in  a  certain  way  understood  him  ;  she 
(Mrs.  Rutherford)  had  had  the  greatest  fear  of  Lanse's  fall 
ing  into  the  hands  of  some  woman  who  wouldn't  have  the 
sense  to  appreciate  him,  some  woman  who  would  try  to 
change  him ;  one  of  those  dreadful  Pharisaic  women,  for 
instance,  who  are  always  trying  to  "improve"  their  hus 
bands.  There  was  nothing  easier  than  to  get  on  with  Lanse, 
and  even  to  lead  him  a  little,  as  she  herself  (Mrs.  Ruther 
ford)  had  always  done ;  one  had  only  to  take  him  on  the 
right  side — his  good  warm  heart.  Margaret  was  almost  too 


142  EAST  ANGELS. 

simple,  too  yielding;  but  Lanse  had  wit  and  will  enough 
for  two.  There  was  another  reason  why  this  marriage 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  Lanse:  he  had  run  through  al 
most  all  his  money  (he  had  never  had  a  very  great  deal,  as 
Evert  would  remember),  and  Margaret  had  a  handsome  fort 
une,  which  would  come  in  now  very  well.  She  was  rather 
pretty — Margaret — in  a  delicate  sort  of  way.  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford  hoped  she  appreciated  her  good-luck  ;  if  she  didn't  now, 
she  would  soon,  when  she  had  seen  a  little  more  of  the  world. 
And  here  one  of  his  aunt's  sentences  came,  word  for  word, 
into  Winthrop's  memory:  "But  it's  curious,  isn't  it,  Evert? 
that  such  an  inexperienced  child  as  she  is,  a  girl  brought  up 
in  such  complete  seclusion,  should  begin  life  by  marrying 
Lansing  Harold !  For  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  how  he  has 
been  sought  after,  what  his  career  has  been."  This  was  true. 
Allowance,  of  course,  had  to  be  made  for  Mrs.  Rutherford's 
partiality ;  still,  Evert  knew  that  even  with  allowance  there 
was  enough  to  verify  her  words,  at  least  in  part.  Lansing 
Harold  had  never  been  in  the  least  what  is  called  popular ; 
he  was  not  a  man  who  was  liked  by  many  persons,  he  took 
pains  not  to  be  ;  he  preferred  to  please  only  a  few.  Whether 
or  not  there  had  been  women  among  those  he  had  tried  to 
please,  it  was  at  least  well  known  that  women  had  tried  to 
please  him.  More  than  one  had  followed  him  about,  with 
due  regard,  of  course,  for  the  proprieties  (it  is  not  necessary 
to  include  those — who  also  existed — who  had  violated  them), 
finding  themselves,  for  instance,  in  Venice,  when  he  happened 
to  be  there,  or  choosing  his  times  for  visiting  Rome.  Now 
Lanse  had  had  a  way  of  declaring  that  June  was  the  best 
month  for  Rome ;  it  had  been  interesting  to  observe,  for  a 
long  period,  that  each  year  there  was  some  new  person  who 
had  made  the  same  discovery. 

"  We  were  home  long  before  you,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford, 
when  Winthrop,  having  brought  his  reflections  to  a  close, 
and  enjoyed  another  gallop,  returned  to  the  eyrie.  "  Mrs. 
Thome  has  been  here,"  she  added;  "she  came  up  from  East 
Angels  after  Garda,  and  took  the  opportunity — she  generally 
does  take  the  opportunity,  I  notice — to  pay  me  a  visit.  She 
never  stopped  talking,  with  that  precise  pronunciation,  you 
know,  one  single  minute,  and  I  believe  that's  what  makes 


EAST  ANGELS.  143 

her  so  tired  all  the  time ;  I  know  I  should  be  tired  if  I  had 
to  hiss  all  my  s's  as  she  does!  She  had  ever  so  many  things 
to  say ;  one  was  that  when  her  life  was  sad  and  painful  she 
was  able  to  rise  out  of  her  body — out  of  the  flesh,  she  called 
it  (there  isn't  much  to  rise  from),  and  float,  unclothed,  far 
above  in  the  air,  in  the  realm  of  pure  thought,  I  think  she 
said.  And  when  I  asked  her  if  it  wasn't  rather  unpleasant 
— for  I  assure  you  it  struck  me  so — she  wasn't  at  all  pleased, 
not  at  all.  She's  such  an  observer  of  nature,— I  suppose 
that's  because  she  has  always  lived  where  there  was  nothing 
but  nature  to  observe;  well,  I  do  believe  she  had  seen  an 
allegorical  meaning  in  every  single  tree  on  the  shore  as  she 
came  up  the  river !" 

"  I  rather  think  she  saw  her  meanings  more  than  her  trees," 
said  Winthrop ;  "  I  venture  to  say  she  couldn't  have  told  you 
whether  they  were  cypresses  or  myrtles,  palmettoes  or  gums ; 
such  people  never  can.  Tired  ?  Of  course  she's  tired  ;  her 
imagination  travels  miles  a  minute,  her  poor  little  body  can't 
begin  to  keep  up  with  it." 

"So  foolish,"  commented  Mrs.  Rutherford,  tranquilly — 
Mrs.  Rutherford,  who  had  never  imagined  anything  in  her 
life.  "And  do  you  know  she  admires  Margaret  beyond 
words — if  she's  ever  beyond  them  !  Isn't  it  odd  ?  She  says 
Margaret  answers  one  so  delightfully.  And  when  I  remark 
ed,  *  Why,  we  think  Margaret  rather  silent,'  she  said,  *  That 
is  what  I  mean,  it  is  her  silence  that  is  so  sympathetic;  she 
answers  you  with  it  far  more  effectually  than  most  persons 
do  with  their  talkativeness." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  talked,  Aunt  Katrina,"  said  Winthrop, 
laughing. 

"I  never  do,"  replied  Mrs.  Rutherford,  with  dignity. 
"  And  she  told  me,  also,"  she  went  on,  resuming  her  gossip 
in  her  calm,  handsomely  dressed  tone  (for  even  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford's  tone  seemed  clothed  in  rich  attire),  "that  that  young 
Torres  had  asked  her  permission  to  *  address '  Garda,  as  she 
expressed  it." 

"To  address  Garda?  Confound  his  impudence!  what 
does  he  mean  ?"  said  Winthrop,  in  a  disgusted  voice.  "  Gar- 
da's  a  child." 

"Oh,  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Rutherford,  " she's  half  Spanish, 


144  EAST  ANGELS. 

and  that  makes  a  difference;  they're  older.  But  I  don't 
think  the  mother  favors  the  Cuban's  suit,  she  prefers  some 
thing  '  more  Saxon,'  she  said  so.  And,  by-the-vvay,  she  asked 
me  if  you  were  not  '  more  recently  English '  than  the  rest  of 
us.  What  do  you  suppose  she  could  have  meant  ? — I  never 
quite  know  what  she  is  driving  at." 

Winthrop  burst  into  a  laugh.  "  More  recently  English  i 
Poor  little  woman,  with  her  small  New  England  throat,  she 
has  swallowed  the  British  Isles  !  You  don't  think  the  Cuban 
has  a  chance,  then  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Rutherford,  comforta 
bly;  "it  doesn't  concern  us,  does  it?  It  will  depend  upon 
what  Garda  thinks,  and  Garda  will  think  what  she  pleases ; 
she  isn't  a  girl  to  be  guided." 

"  She  hasn't  been  difficult  to  guide  so  far,  I  fancy,"  said 
Winthrop,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

^"She  will  be,  then,"  responded  his  aunt,  nodding  her  head 
with  an  assured  air.     "  You'll  see." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"I  AM  not  partial  to  it  myself,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore— 
"this  confection  of  oranges  called  marmalade.  I  am  told, 
however,  that  the  English  are  accustomed  to  make  their 
breakfast  principally  of  similar  saccharine  preparations;  in 
time,  therefore,  we  may  hope  to  establish  an  export  trade." 

A  fresh  breeze  astern  was  blowing  the  Emperadora  down 
the  lagoon  in  a  course  straight  enough  to  please  even  Mrs. 
Carew,  if  that  lady  could  have  been  pleased  by  anything 
aquatic.  She  was  present,  in  spite  of  fears,  sitting  with  the 
soles  of  her  prunella  gaiters  pressed  tightly  against  the  little 
yacht's  side  under  the  seat  (the  peculiarity  of  the  attitude 
being  concealed  by  her  long  skirt),  with  the  intention,  prob 
ably,  of  acting  as  a  species  of  brake  upon  too  great  a  speed. 

The  position  was  a  difficult  one.  But  she  'kept  her  bal 
ance  by  means  of  her  umbrella,  firmly  inserted  in  a  crack  of 
the  planking  before  her,  and  did  not  swerve. 

The  broad  sails  were  set  wing  and  wing;  the  morning  was 


EAST  ANGELS.  145 

divinely  fair.  Down  in  the  south  the  tall  trees  looming 
against  the  sky  seemed  like  a  line  of  hills ;  owing  to  the  low- 
ness  of  the  shores,  on  a  level  with  the  water,  and  the  smooth 
ness  of  the  sea  stretching  eastward  beyond  Patricio,  the  com 
parative  effect  was  the  same.  Above,  the  soft  sky  bending 
down  all  round  them,  touching  here  the  even  land  and  there 
the  even  water,  conveyed  nothing  of  that  sense  of  vastness,  of 
impersonality,  which  belongs  so  often  to  the  American  sky 
further  north.  This  seemed  a  particular  sky  belonging  to 
this  especial  neighborhood,  made  for  it,  intimate  with  it; 
and.  the  yacht  with  those  on  board  did  not  appear  like  a 
floating  atom,  lost  in  immensity  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  im 
portant,  interesting ;  one  could  not  rid  one's  self  of  the  idea 
that  its  little  voyage  was  watched  with  friendly  curiosity  by 
this  bending  personal  sky,  and  these  near  low  shores. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  had  been  sent  upon  this  pleasure-par 
ty  by  his  wife.  Mrs.  Penelope  Moore  was  sure  that  a  pleas 
ure-party  would  do  him  good;  the  Reverend  Middleton  there 
fore  endeavored  to  think  the  same,  though  it  was  not  exactly 
his  idea  of  pleasure.  He  was  not  fond  of  sailing ;  there  was 
generally  a  breeze,  and  a  breeze  he  did  not  enjoy.  There 
was,  indeed,  something  in  his  appearance,  when  exposed  to  a 
fresh  wind,  which  suggested  the  idea  that  a  portion  of  it  was 
blowing  through  him,  iinding  an  exit  at  his  shonlder-blades 
behind ;  his  lank  vest  somehow  had  that  air ;  and  the  sensa 
tion  (so  the  spectator  thought)  could  hardly  have  been  an 
agreeable  one  to  so  thin  a  man,  even  on  the  warmest  day. 

Mrs.  Penelope  Moore  was  a  brave  woman.  And  she  knew 
that  she  was  brave.  Not  being  able,  on  account  of  her  deli 
cate  health,  to  take  part  personally  in  the  social  entertain 
ments  of  Gracias,  she  sent  her  husband  in  her  place.  And 
this  was  her  bravery  ;  for  he  was  without  doubt  the  most 
agreeable  as  well  as  the  handsomest  of  men,  and  anybody 
with  sense  could  foretell  what  must  follow  :  given  certain 
conditions,  and  the  results  all  the  world  over  were  the  same. 
Other  people  might  say  that  quiet  little  Gracias  was  safe, 
Mrs.  Penelope  Moore  knew  better.  Other  people,  again, 
might  be  blind ;  but  Mrs.  Penelope  Moore  was  never  blind. 
She  knew  that  such  a  man  as  her  Middleton  passed,  must 
pass,  daily  through  temptations  of  the  most  incandescent 

10 


146  EAST  ANGELS. 

nature,  all  the  more  dangerous  because  merged  inextricably 
with  his  priest's  office  ;  but  he  passed  unscathed,  he  came  out 
always,  as  she  once  wrote  triumphantly  to  her  mother,  "  with 
out  so  much  as  a  singe  upon  the  hem  of  his  uttermost  gar 
ment."  And  if,  on  the  other  hand,  it  might  have  seemed  that 
so  little  (blessedly)  that  was  inflammable  had  been  included 
in  this  good  man's  composition  that  he  might  have  passed 
safely  through  any  amount  of  incandescence,  even  all  that  his 
wife  imagined,  here  again,  then,  others  were  most  decidedly 
mistaken  ;  Mrs.  Moore  was  convinced  that  her  Middleton  was 
of  the  fieriest  temperament.  Only  he  kept  it  down. 

Gracias-a-Dios  was  certainly  quiet  enough.  But  Mistress 
Penelope,  like  many  good  women  before  her,  could  believe 
with  ease  in  a  degree  of  depravity  which  would  have  startled 
the  most  hardened  of  actual  participants.  Having  no  stand 
ards  by  which  to  gauge  evil,  no  personal  experience  of  its 
nature,  she  was  quite  at  sea  about  it.  As  Dr.  Kirby  once 
said  of  her  (when  vexed  by  some  of  her  small  rulings),  "  If 
people  don't  come  to  Friday  morning  service,  sir,  she  thinks 
it  but  a  small  step  further  that  they  should  have  poisoned 
their  fathers  and  beaten  their  wives." 

On  the  present  occasion  this  lady  set  her  husband's  hat 
straight  upon  his  amiable  forehead,  and  gave  him  his  butter 
fly  net;  then  from  her  Gothic  windows  (the  rectory  of  St. 
Philip  and  St.  James'  was  of  the  same  uncertain  Gothic  as 
the  church),  she  watched  him  down  the  path  and  through 
the  gate,  across  the  plaza  out  of  sight,  going  back  to  her  sofa 
with  the  secure  thought  in  her  heart,  "  I  can  trust  him — any 
where  /" 

The  party  on  the  yacht  was  composed  of  the  same  persons 
who  had  taken  part  in  most  of  the  entertainments  given  for 
the  northern  ladies,  save  that  Manuel  and  Torres  were  absent. 
Torres  had  not  been  allowed  to  "  address  "  Garda,  after  all, 
Mrs.  Thome  having  withheld  her  permission.  The  young 
Cuban  was  far  too  punctilious  an  observer  of  etiquette  to  ad 
vance  further  without  that  permission ;  he  had  therefore  left 
society's  circle,  and  secluded  himself  at  home,  where,  accord 
ing  to  Manuel,  he  was  engaged  in  "  consuming  his  soul." 

"His  cigars,"  Winthrop  suggested. 

Whereupon  Manuel,  who  was  not  fond  of  the  northerner, 


EAST  ANGELS.  147 

warmly  took  up  the  cause  of  the  absent  Adolfo  (though  or 
dinarily  he  declared  himself  tired  to  death  of  him),  and  with 
his  superbest  air  remarked,  "It  is  possible  that  Mr.Wintup 
does  not  understand  us." 

"  Quite  possible,"  Winthrop  answered. 

Mrs.  Thorne  had  consulted  him  about  the  request  of  Tor 
res.  Not  formally,  not  (at  least  it  did  not  appear  so)  pre- 
meditatedly  ;  she  alluded  to  it  one  afternoon  when  he  had 
found  her  alone  at  East  Angels.  Winthrop  was  very  severe 
upon  what  he  called  the  young  Cuban's  "  presumption." 

"  Presumption — yes ;  that  is  what  I  have  been  inclined  to 
consider  it,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  with  her  little  preliminary 
cough.  But  she  spoke  hesitatingly,  or  rather  there  seemed 
to  be  hesitation  in  her  mind  behind  her  words,  for  her  words 
themselves  were  carefully  clear. 

Winthrop  looked  at  her,  and  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  a 
throng  of  conflicting  possibilities,  contingencies,  and  alterna 
tives  ^in  the  back  part  of  her  small  bright  eyes.  "Your 
daughter  is  too  young  to  be  made  the  subject  of  any  such 
request  at  present,"  he  said,  curtly.  For  it  seemed  to  him  a 
moment  when  a  little  masculine  brevity  and  masculine  decis 
ion  were  needed  in  this  exclusively  feminine  atmosphere. 

Mrs.  Thorne  accepted  his  suggestion.  "  Yes,  Garcia  is 
young,"  she  murmured,  emerging  a  little  from  her  hesita 
tions.  "  Quite  too  young,"  she  repeated,  more  emphatically. 
Winthrop  had  given  her  a  formula,  and  formulas  are  some 
times  as  valuable  as  a  life-raft. 

Torres,  therefore,  being  engaged  in  the  consumption  of 
his  soul,  and  Manuel  having  haughtily  declined  the  northern 
er's  invitation,  the  party  on  the  yacht  consisted,  besides  Win 
throp,  of  Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Margaret  Harold,  Mrs.  Carcw, 
Garda,  Dr.  Kirby,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  Mrs.  Thorne  hav 
ing  been  detained  at  home  by  the  "  pressing  domestic  en 
gagements  "  which  Winthrop  had  been  certain  would  lift  their 
heads  as  soon  as  the  day  for  the  Emperadora's  little  voyage 
had  been  decided  upon.  Wind  and  tide  were  both  in  their 
favor ;  they  had  a  swift  run  down  the  Espiritu,  and  landed 
on  Patricio  a  number  of  miles  below  Gracias,  where  there 
was  a  path  which  led  across  to  the  ocean  beach.  This  path 
was  narrow,  and  the  gallant  Dr.  Kirby  walked  in  the  bushes 


148  EAST  ANGELS. 

all  the  way,  suffering  the  twigs  to  flagellate  his  plump  person, 
in  order  to  hold  a  white  umbrella  over  Mrs.  Rutherford,  who, 
arm  in  arm  with  her  Betty,  took  up  the  entire  track.  Pa- 
tricio,  which  had  first  been  a  reef,  and  then  an  outlying  isl 
and,  was  now  a  long  peninsula,  joining  the  main  land  some 
forty  miles  below  Gracias  in  an  isthmus  of  sand ;  it  came 
northward  in  a  waving  line,  slender  and  green,  lying  like  a 
ribbon  in  the  water,  the  Espiritu  on  one  side,  the  ocean  on 
the  other.  When  the  ocean  beach  of  the  ribbon  was  reached, 
Mrs.  Rutherford  admired  the  view ;  she  admired  it  so  much 
that  she  thought  she  would  sit  down  and  admire  it  more. 
Dr.  Kirby  therefore  bestirred  himself  in  arranging  the  cush 
ions  and  rugs  which  Winthrop's  men  had  brought  across 
from  the  yacht,  to  form  an  out-of-door  sofa  for  the  ladies ; 
for  Betty,  of  course,  decided  to  remain  with  Katrina.  The 
Doctor  said  that  he  should  himself  bear  them  company,  leav 
ing  the  "  younger  men  "  to  "  fume  and  fluster  and  explore." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  was,  in  actual  years,  not  far  from  Dr. 
Reginald's  own  age.  But  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  was  perennially 
young;  slender  and  light,  juvenile  in  figure,  especially  when 
seen  from  behind,  his  appearance  was  not  that  of  an  elderly 
man  so  much  as  of  a  young  man  in  whom  the  progress  of 
age  has  been  in  some  way  arrested,  like  the  young  peaches, 
withered  and  wrinkled  and  yet  with  the  bloom  of  youth  about 
them  still,  which  have  dropped  to  the  ground  before  their 
prime.  He  now  stood  waiting  on  the  beach,  armed  with  h.is 
butterfly  net;  as  his  butterfly  net  was  attached  to  a  long 
green  pole,  one  end  of  which  rested  on  the  ground,  he  had 
the  air  of  a  sort  of  marine  shepherd  with  a  crook. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  always  carried  this  entomological  ap 
paratus  with  him  when  he  went  upon  pleasure  excursions ; 
his  wife  encouraged  him  in  the  amusement,  she  said  it  was  a 
distraction  for  his  mind ;  the  butterflies  also  found  it  a  dis 
traction,  they  were  in  the  habit  of  laughing  (so  some  persons 
declared)  all  down  the  coast  whenever  the  parson  and  his  net 
appeared  in  sight. 

"  You  are  going  to  explore,  aren't  you  ?"  said  Garda  to 
Margaret  Harold;  "it's  lovely,  and  we  shall  not  fume  or 
fluster  in  the  least,  in  spite  of  the  Doctor;  we  shall  only 
pick  up  shells.  Over  these  shells  we  shall  exclaim  ;  Mr.  Win- 


EAST  ANGELS.  149 

throp  will  find  charming  ones,  and  present  them  to  us,  and 
then  we  shall  exclaim  more ;  we  shall  dote  upon  the  ones  he 
gives  us,  we  shall  hoard  them  awav  carefully  in  our  handker 
chiefs  and  pockets;  and  then,  to-morrow  morning,  when  the 
sun  comes  up,  he  will  shine  upon  two  dear  little  heaps  of 
them  outside  our  bedroom  windows,  where,  of  course,  we 
shall  have  thrown  them  as  soon  as  we  reached  home." 

Mr.  Moore  listened  to  these  remarks  with  surprise.  Upon 
the  various  occasions  when  he  had  visited  Patricio  he  had  al 
ways,  and  with  great  interest,  picked  up  shells  for  the  ladies 
present,  knowing  how  much  they  would  value  them.  He 
now  meditated  a  little  upon  the  back  windows  alluded  to  by 
Garda ;  it  was  a  new  idea. 

"Oh,  how  delightful  it  is  to  go  marooning!"  said  Mrs. 
Carew,  who,  beginning  to  recover  from  the  terrors  of  the 
voyage,  had  found  her  voice  again.  Her  feet  were  still  some 
what  cramped  from  their  use  as  brakes;  she  furtively  ex 
tended  them  for  a  moment,  and  then,  unable  to  resist  the 
comfort  of  the  position,  left  them  extended.  Her  boots  were 
the  old-fashioned  thin-soled  all-cloth  gaiters  without  heels, 
laced  at  the  side,  dear  to  the  comfort-loving  ladies  of  that 
day ;  her  ankles  came  down  into  their  loose  interiors  without 
any  diminishing  curves,  as  in  the  case  of  the  elephant. 

"Are  you  going,  Margaret?"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  in  her 
amubly  patronizing  voice.  "Don't  you  think  you  will  find 
it  rather  warm  ?"  Mrs.  Rutherford  inhabited  the  serene  coun 
try  of  non-effort,  she  could  therefore  maintain  without  trouble 
the  satisfactory  position  of  criticising  the  actions  of  others ; 
for  whether  they  succeeded  or  whether  they  failed,  success  or 
failure  equally  indicated  an  attempt,  and  anything  like  attempt 
she  was  above.  " People  who  try"  was  one  of  her  phrases ; 
she  would  not  have  cared  to  discover  America,  for  undoubt^ 
cdly  Columbus  had  tried, 

"  I  like  this  Florida  warmth,"  Margaret  had  answered. 
"  It's  not  heat ;  it's  only  softness," 

"  It's  lax,  I  think,"  suggested  Mrs.  Rutherford,  still  amia 
bly. 

No  one  disputed  this  point.     It  was  lax. 

"Doesn't  he  look  like  a  tree?"  murmured  Garda  to  Mar 
garet,  indicating  by  a  glance  the  Rev,  Mr.  Moore,  as  he  stood 


150  EAST  ANGELS. 

at  a  little  distance,  gazing  at  the  sea — "a  tall  slim  one,  you 
know,  that  hasn't  many  leaves ;  his  arms  are  like  the  branches, 
and  his  fingers  like  the  twigs;  and  his  voice  is  so  innocent 
and — and  vegetable." 

Margaret  shook  her  head. 

"  You  don't  like  it  ?"  said  the  girl ;  "  you  think  I  am  dis 
respectful  ?  I  am  not  disrespectful  at  all,  I  adore  Mr.  Moore. 
But  you  must  acknowledge  that  he's  a  mild  herby  sort  of 
man ;  he's  like  lettuce— before  it's  dressed.  All  the  same, 
you  know,  he's  an  angel." 

Dr.  Kirby  meanwhile  was  entertaining  Betty  and  Katrina, 
now  seated  together  on  the  out-of-door  sofa  he  had  made. 
He  was  arranging  at  the  same  time  a  seat  for  himself  near 
them  by  piling  together  with  careful  adjustment  the  scattered 
fragments  of  drift-wood  which  he  had  found  in  the  vicinity, 
•in  a  sort  of  cairn  ;  his  intention  was  to  crown  this  cairn,  when 
finished,  with  one  of  the  boat  cushions,  which  he  had  reserved 


crept 

literature.  The  other  day,  happening  to  turn  over  the  pages 
of  one  of  these  modern  novels,  I  came  upon  a  scene  in  which 
the  hero  and  heroine  are  supposed  to  be  shaken,  tortured  by 
the  violence  of  their  emotions,  stirred  to  their  utmost  depths'; 
and  yet  the  author  takes  that  opportunity  to  leave  them  there, 
leave  them  in  the  midst  of  their  agonies — and  the  reader's  as 
well — to  remark  that  a  butterfly  flew  in  through  the  open 
window  and  hovered  for  a  moment  over  their  heads ;  now 
he  poised  here,  now  he  poised  there,  now  he  did  this,  and 
now  that,  and  so  on  through  a  quarter  of  a  page.  I  ask  you 
— what  if  he  did  ?"  (Here  he  finished  his  cairn,  and  sat  down 
to  try  it.)  "  Who  cares?  Why  should  the  whole  action  of 
the  tale  pause,  and  at  such  a  critical  moment,  in  order  that 
the  flight  and  movements  of  an  insignificant  insect  should  be 
minutely  chronicled  ?" 

"  But  the  butterfly,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  who  had 
drawn  near,  "can  hardly,  I  think,  be  described  as  an  'insig 
nificant  insect.' " 

"Have  you  read  these  modern  novels?"  demanded  the 
Doctor,  facing  him  from  his  cairn. 


EAST   ANGELS.  151 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Moore ;  "  I  am  familiar  with 
'  Bracebridge  Hall,'  '  Swallow  Barn,'  and  several  other  works 
of  fiction  of  that  type."  And  he  stood  there  looking  at 
the  Doctor  with  the  peculiar  mild  obstinacy  which  belongs  to 
light-blue  eyes,  whose  under-lids  come  up  high  at  the  outer 
corners. 

"But,  Doctor,  you  are  attacking  there  one  of  our  most 
cherished  modern  novelties,"  said  Winthrop,  who  had  now 
joined  them,  "  namely,  the  new  copartnership  between  Nat 
ure  and  Literature.  Nature  is  now  a  very  literary  personage 
and  a  butterfly  can  mean  a  great  deal." 

"Nature  has  nothing  to  do  with  literature,  I  mean  the  lit 
erature  we  call  polite,"  Dr.  Kirby  protested,  still  fierily  (while 
Mrs.  Rutherford  admired  his  ardor).  But  the  clergyman  had 
nodded  his  head  in  approval,  a  butterfly  could  certainly  mean 
a  great  deal ;  he  himself  had  long  been  of  the  opinion  that 
they  possessed  reasoning  powers  —  he  had  so  seldom  been 
able  to  capture  one. 

The  explorers  now  left  the  sofa  and  cairn,  and  started  down 
the  beach,  Garda  and  Winthrop  first,  Mr.  Moore  and  Marga 
ret  following.  It  seemed  natural  to  everybody  that  Win 
throp  should  be  with  Garda,  he  had  been  with  her  so  much ; 
his  manner,  however,  had  in  it  so  little  of  admiration  (as  ad 
miration  was  understood  in  Gracias)  that  this  had  occasioned 
no  remark.  Manuel  (whose  admiration  had  the  local  hues) 
cherished  resentment  against  this  northerner,  but  it  was  not 
the  resentment  of  jealousy ;  Manuel,  indeed,  did  not  dream 
that  he  had  occasion  for  jealousy.  He  was  sure  that  Mrs. 
Thome  yearned  for  him,  that  her  highest  aspirations  regard 
ing  a  son-in-law  could  go  no  further ;  but  there  need  be  no 
haste,  he  must  see  something  of  the  world  first.  He  had 
made  a  beginning  (so  he  flattered  himself)  by  seeing  some 
thing  of  it  in  that  charming  though  rather  silent  Mrs.  Harold. 
As  for  Torres,  that  dark  youth  could  never  have  conceived 
the  possibility  of  admitting  any  one  to  a  serious  rivalry  with 
himself — any  one,  at  least,  outside  of  Spain.  Who  was  this 
Wintup ?  Only  an  American;  even  Manuel  was  but  an 
American-Spaniard,  as  any  one  could  see.  But  Garda  was 
all  Duero,  Spanish  to  the  finger-tips;  Garda  understood  him. 
And  this  in  itself  was  no  small  matter  —  to  understand  a 


152  EAST  ANGELS. 

Torres;  many  persons,  even  when  thrown  with  them  daily, 
had  lived  all  their  lives  without  accomplishing  that.  Garda 
understood  herself  also ;  she  might  delay,  have  little  freaks ; 
but  in  the  end  it  was  impossible  that  she  should  be  content 
with  anything  less  than  a  Torres,  if  there  were  one  in  attend 
ance  upon  her  graceful  steps, — as  there  certainly  would  be. 

For  a  time  the  four  pedestrians  kept  together.  "See  the 
pelicans  on  the  bar,"  said  Garda,  "  The  wish  of  my  life  has 
been  to  go  out  there  and  chase  them  with  a  stick." 

"  Why  should  you  wish  to  do  that,  my  child  ?"  said  the 
clergyman.  "  Surely  there  are  many  occupations  more  inter 
esting,  as  well  as  more  instructive." 

"  Shouldn't  you  love  to  be  a  curlew  ?"  said  the  girl,  going 
to  him  and  putting  her  arm  in  his.  "The  sickle-bill,  you 
know  ;  he  hasn't  the  least  realization  of  the  faults  of  his  pro 
file,  and  that  must  be  such  a  comfort." 

"  Profiles,"  responded  Mr.  Moore,  with  a  little  wave  of  his 
hand,  "are  quite  unimportant;  what  is  a  profile,  in  most 
cases,  but  the  chance  outline  of  a  nose?  Handsome  is  as 
handsome  does,  Garda ;  that  is  the  best  view  to  take." 

Winthrop  listened  to  this  little  dialogue  with  entertain 
ment,  evidently  the  good  rector  had  no  more  realization  of 
Garda' s  beauty  than  he  had  of  the  new  short  length  for  ser 
mons  ;  his  standard  in  profiles  was  probably  the  long  thin 
nose  and  small  straight  mouth  of  his  excellent  Penelope. 

"  The  Bermudoes  lie  off  in  that  direction,"  continued  the 
clergyman,  looking  over  the  blue  water.  Garda  had  now  left 
him  and  gone  back  to  Winthrop.  "  I  mean  the  Barbagoes," 
he  added,  correcting  himself.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
"No,  no,  not  Barbagoes;  I  am  thinking,  of  course,  of  the 
Bahamoes."  Again  he  paused,  his  face  began  to  wear  a  be 
wildered  expression  ;  slackening  his  pace  a  little,  he  repeated 
over  to  himself  softly,  as  if  trying  them,  "Bahamoes — Ber- 
gudas;  then  there  is  Tor — no,  Tobaga,  isn't  it?  Certainly  I 
cannot  be  wrong  in  thinking  one  of  the  groups  to  be  the  Dry 
Tortugoes  ?"  And  yet  it  did  not  seem  quite  certain,  after  all. 

"  A  butterfly,  a  splendid  one,"  called  Garda. 

And  then  the  reverend  gentleman,  forgetting  the  tangled 
islands,  brandished  his  net  and  leaped  forward  in  pursuit. 

Garda  was  now  with  Margaret ;  Winthrop  walked  on  be- 


EAST  ANGELS.  153 

side  them,  and  they  went  southward  at  a  leisurely  pace,  down 
the  broad  beach.  To  the  ordinary  observer  Winthrop  and 
Margaret  appeared  to  be  on  the  usual  friendly  terms;  the 
only  lack  which  could  have  been  detected  was  the  absenco 
between  them  of  little  discussions,  and  references  to  past  dis 
cussions,  brief  allusions  where  one  word  is  made  to  do  the 
work  of  twenty,  which  are  natural  when  people  have  formed 
part  of  the  same  family  for  some  time.  Margaret  and  Win 
throp  talked  to  each  other,  and  talked  familiarly ;  but  this 
was  always  when  other  persons  were  present.  Garda,  though 
she  seldom  troubled  herself  to  observe  closely,  had  remarked 
these  little  signs.  "  I  think  you  are  horrid  to  Margaret," 
she  had  once  said  to  Winthrop  with  warmth.  "  And  Mar 
garet  is  far  too  good  and  too  gentle  to  you." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Harold  has  always  a  very  gentle  manner,"  he 
had  answered,  assentingly. 

"  That  is  more  horrid  still !  Of  course  she  has.  But  I 
wish  she  hadn't — at  least  with  you;  I  wish  she  would  be 
sharp  with  you — as  I  am." 

"  Are  you  sharp  ?"  Winthrop  had  asked,  smiling  indulgent 
ly  at  the  contrast  between  her  allegation  and  the  voice  in 
which  it  was  uttered. 

Garda,  with  her  hand  on  Margaret's  arm,  was  now  walk 
ing  onward,  humming  lightly  to  herself  as  she  walked.  Her 
humming  was  vague,  as  she  had  no  ear  for  music.  It  was  a 
complete  lack,  however ;  she  was  not  one  of  those  persons 
who  are  haunted  by  tunes  half  caught,  who  afflictingly  sing 
a  song  all  through  a  semi-note  flat,  and  never  know  it. 

Margaret's  eyes  were  following  the  sands.  "  What  lovely 
sea-weeds,"  she  said,  as  little  branching  fibres,  like  crimson 
frost-work,  began  to  dot  the  silver  here  and  there. 

"Now  how  feminine  that  is!"  said  Winthrop,  argumenta- 
tively,  as  he  strolled  on  beside  them.  **  Instead  of  looking 
at  the  ocean,  or  this  grand  beach  as  a  whole,  what  does  Mrs. 
Harold  do?  She  spends  her  time  admiring  an  infinitesimal 
pink  fragment  at  her  feet.  Fragments ! — I  am  tired  of  the 
fragmentary  taste.  In  a  picture,  even  the  greatest,  you  frag 
mentary  people  are  always  admiring  what  you  call  the  side 
touches;  you  talk  about  some  little  thing  that  has  been  put 
in  merely  as  a  decorative  feature,  or  if  for  a  wonder  you  do 


154  EAST  ANGELS. 

select  a  figure,  it  is  sure  to  be  one  of  minor  importance;  the 
effect  of  the  whole  as  a  whole,  the  central  idea  to  which 
the  artist  has  given  his  best  genius  and  power,  this  you  don't 
care  for,  hardly  see.  It  is  the  same  way  with  a  book  ;  it  is 
always  some  fragment  of  outside  talk  or  description,  some 
subordinate  character,  to  which  you  givre  your  praise  ;  never 
—  no  matter  how  fine  it  is  —  the  leading  motive  and  its  devel 
opment.  In  an  old  cathedral,  too,  you.  women  go  putting 
your  pretty  noses  close  to  all  the  little  things,  the'bits  of  old 
carving,  an  old  inscription  —  in  short,  the  details  ;  the  effect 
of  the  grand  mass  of  the  whole,  rising  against  the  sky,  this 
you  know  nothing  whatever  about." 

"  I  am  glad  at  least  that  the  noses  arc  pretty,"  interpolated 
Garda,  amid  her  humming. 

"  I  think  I  have  met  a  few  men  also  who  admire  details," 
observed  Margaret. 

"  A  few  ?  Plenty  of  them.  They  are  the  men  of  the  fem 
inine  turn  of  mind.  But  don't  imagine  that  I  don't  care  for 
details;  details  in  their  proper  place  may  be  admirable,  ex 
quisite.  What  I  am  objecting  to  is  their  being  pushed  into 
a  place  which  is  not  theirs  by  you  fragmentary  people,  who 
simply  shirk  (I  don't  know  whether  it  is  from  indolence  or 
want  of  mental  grasp)  any  consideration  of  a  whole." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Garda  to  Margaret;  "let's  be  frag 
mentary.  We'll  even  pick  up  the  sea-weeds  if  you  like 
(though  generally  I  hate  to  pick  up  things);  we'lffill  your 
basket,  and  make  Mr.  Winthrop  carry  it." 

"  No,"  said  Margaret.  "  On  the  contrary,  let  us  abhor  the 
sea-weeds;  let  us  give  ourselves  to  the  consideration  of  a 
whole."  And,  pausing,  she  looked  over  the  sea,  then  up  at 
the  sky  and  down  the  beach,  with  a  slow  musing  sweep  of 
the  head  which  became  her  well. 

"You're  not  enough  in  earnest,"  said  Garda;  "  we  can  see 
the  edge  of  a  smile  at  the  corners  of  your  lips.  Wait  —  I'll 
do  it  better."  She  stepped  apart  from  them,  clasped  her 
hands,  and  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  sea,  where  they  rest 
ed  with  a  soft,  absorbed  earnestness  that  was  remarkable. 
"  Is  this  wide  enough  ?"  she  asked,  without  change  of  expres 
" 


son. 
is  it—  a 


Is  it  free  from  details  —  unfragmentary  ?     In  short, 

Whole  ?" 


EAST  AXGELS.  155 

"  Yes,"  said  Winthrop  ;  "  far  too  much  of  one  !  You  are 
as  universal  as  a  Universal  Geography.  Come  back  to  us — 
in  as  manv  details  and  fragments  as  you  please;  only  come 
back." 

"  By  no  means;  I  have  still  the  beach  to  do,  and  the  sky." 
And  slowly  she  turned  the  same  wide,  absorbed  gaze  from 
the  sea  to  the  white  shore. 

The  beach  was  worth  looking  at ;  broad,  smooth,  gleaming, 
it  stretched  southward  as  far  as  eye  could  follow  it;  even 
there  it  did  not  end,  it  became  a  silver  haze  which  mixed 
softly  with  the  sea.  On  the  land  side  it  was  bounded  by  the 
sand-cliff  which  formed  the  edge  of  Patricio ;  this  little  cliff, 
though  but  twelve  or  fourteen  feet  in  height,  was  perpendic 
ular;  it  cut  off,  therefore,  the  view  of  the  flat  ground  above 
as  completely  as  though  it  had  been  five  hundred.  Great 
pink-mouthed  shells  dotted  the  beach's  white  floor;  at  its 
edge  myriads  of  minute  disks  of  rose  and  pearl  lay  heaped 
amid  little  stones,  smooth  and  white,  all  of  them  wet  and 
glistening.  Heaps  of  bleached  drift-wood  lay  where  high 
tides  had  left  them.  Little  beach-birds  ran  along  at  the  wa 
ter's  edge  with  their  peculiar  gait — many  pauses,  intermixed 
with  half  a  dozen  light  fleet  steps  as  though  running  away — 
the  gait,  if  ever  there  was  one,  of  invitation  to  pursue.  There 
were  no  ships  on  the  sea  ;  the  tracks  of  vessels  bound  for 
Cuba,  the  Windward  and  Leeward  islands,  lay  out  of  sight 
from  this  low  strand.  And  gentle  as  the  water  was,  and  soft 
the  air,  the  silence  and  the  absence  of  all  signs  of  human  life 
made  it  a  very  wild  scene  ;  wild  but  not  savage,  the  soft 
wildness  of  an  uninhabited  southern  shore.  For  no  one 
lived  on  Patricio,  save  where,  opposite  East  Angels,  the  old 
Ruiz  house  stood  on  its  lapsed  land — lapsed  from  the  better 
tilling  of  the  century  before. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  had  come  gambolling  back,  strik 
ing  actively  hither  and  thither  with  his  net,  still  pursuing 
the  same  butterfly.  The  butterfly — at  his  leisure — flew  in 
land;  and  then  Mr.  Moore  gave  up  the  chase,  and  joined 
Mrs.  Harold  calmly,  seeming  not  in  the  least  out  of  breath, 
his  face,  indeed,  so  serious  that  she  received  the  impression 
that  while  his  legs  might  have  been  gambolling,  his  thoughts 
had  perhaps  been  employed  with  his  next  Sunday's  sermon  j 


150  EAST  ANGELS. 

he  had  had  an  introspective,  mildly  controversial  air  as  he 
leaped. 

Garda  and  Winthrop  walked  on  in  advance.  The  beach 
waved  in  and  ont  in  long  scallops,  and  when  they  had  enter 
ed  the  second  they  found  themselves  alone,  the  point  behind 
intervening  between  them  and  their  companions. 

"  What  a  dreadfully  lonely  place  this  beach  is,  after  all !" 
said  Garda,  pausing  and  looking  southward  with  a  half-ap 
preciative,  half-disturbed  little  shudder. 

"Not  lonely;  primeval,"  answered  Winthrop.  "Don't 
you  like  it?  I  am  sure  you  do ;  take  time  to  think." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  any  time.  Yes,  I  like  it  in  one  way, 
in  one  way  it's  beautiful.  One  could  be  perfectly  lazv  here 
forever,  and  I  should  like  that.  As  for  the  lonelincss/I  sup 
pose  we  should  not  mind  it  after  a  while — so  long  as  we 
could  be  together." 

Before  Winthrop  could  reply  to  this,  "  Suppose  we  race," 
she  went  on,  looking  at  him  with  sudden  animation.  And 
she  began  to  sway  herself  slightly  to  and  fro  as  she  walked, 
as  though  keeping  time  to  music. 

"  I  think  you  mean  suppose  we  dance,"  he  answered.  She 
had  soon  deserted  the  mood  that  chimed  in  with  his  own ; 
still,  he  had  not  misjudged  her,  she  had  it  in  her  to  compre 
hend  the  charm  of  an  existence  which  should  be  primitive, 
far  from  the  world,  that  simple  free  life  towards  which  the 
thoughts  of  imaginative  men  turn  sometimes  with  such  in 
expressible  longing,  but  to  whose  attractions  feminine  minds 
in  general  are  said  to  be  closed.  The  men  of  imagination 
seldom  carry,  are  seldom  able  to  carry,  their  aspirations  to  a 
practical  reality ;  that  makes  no  difference  in  their  apprecia 
tion  of  the  woman  who  can  comprehend  the  beauty  of  the 
dream.  Here  was  a  girl  who,  under  the  proper  influences, 
would  be  able  to  take  up  such  a  life  and  enjoy  it ;  the  vast 
majority  of  educated  women,  no  matter  what  influences  they 
should  be  subjected  to,  would  never  be  able  to  do  this  in  the 
least ;  they  would  long  for — silk  lamp-shades  and  rugs. 

"Racing  or  dancing,"  Garda  had  replied,  "you  would 
never  win  a  prize  in  either;  you  are  far  too  slow." 

"  And  you  too  indolent,"  he  rejoined. 

He  had  scarcely    spoken    the   words  when   she  was  off. 


EAST  ANGELS.  157 

Down  the  beach  she  sped,  and  with  such  unexpected  swift 
ness  that  he  stood  gazing  instead  of  following;  the  line  of 
her  flight  was  as  straight  as  that  of  an  arrow.  He  was  sur 
prised  ;  he  had  not  thought  that  she  would  take  the  trouble 
to  run,  he  had  not  thought  her  fond  of  any  kind  of  exertion. 
But  this  did  not  seem  like  exertion,  she  ran  as  easily  as  a  slim 
lad  runs;  her  figure  looked  very  light  and  slender,  outlined 
against  the  beach  and  sky.  As  he  still  stood  watching  her, 
•Jfhe  reached  the  end  of  the  scallop,  passed  round  its  point, 
and  disappeared. 

He  looked  back,  there  was  no  one  in  sight;  if  he  had  a 
mind  to  revive  his  school-boy  feats,  he  could  do  so  without 
being  observed.  It  was  a  beautiful  day;  but  running  might 
make  it  warmer.  At  thirty-five  one  does  not  run  for  the 
pure  pleasure  of  it,  as  at  sixteen  ;  if  one  is  not  an  acrobat,  it 
seems  a  useless  waste  of  energy.  Garda  was  probably  wait 
ing  for  him  beyond  the  next  point,  even  her  desire  to  sur 
prise  him  would  not  take  her  farther  than  that ;  he  walked 
onward  at  a  good  pace,  but  he  did  not  run ;  he  reached  the 
point,  turned  it,  and  entered  the  next  scallop.  She  was  not 
there. 

It  was  not  a  very  long  scallop,  she  had  crossed  it,  proba 
bly,  while  he  was  crossing  the  last ;  he  went  on  and  entered 
the  next.  Again  she  was  not  there.  But  this  scallop  was  a 
mile  long,  she  had  certainly  not  had  time  to  cross  it;  where, 
then,  could  she  be  ?  There  was  nothing  moving  on  the 
white  beach,  the  perpendicular  sand-cliff  afforded  no  foot 
ing;  he  walked  on,  thinking  that  there  must  be  some  niche 
which  he  could  not  see  from  where  he  stood.  But  though 
lie  went  farther  than  she  could  possibly  have  gone  in  the 
time  she  had  had,  he  found  nothing,  and  retraced  his  steps, 
puzzled;  the  firm  white  sand  showed  no  trace  of  her  little 
feet,  even  his  own  heavier  tread  was  barely  visible. 

Not  far  from  the  entrance  of  the  scallop  across  which  he 
was  now  returning,  there  was  a  pile  of  drift-wood  higher 
than  the  other  chance  heaps,  its  base  having  been  more  sol 
idly  formed  by  portions  of  an  old  wreck  which  had  been 
washed  ashore  there.  Upon  this  foundation  of  water-logged 
timbers,  branches  and  nondescript  fragments,  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  a  Southern  ocean,  had  been  flung  by  high  tides, 


158  EAST   ANGELS. 

and  had  caught  there  one  upon  the  other,  until  now  the  jag 
ged  summit  was  on  a  level  with  the  top  of  the  sand  cliff, 
though  an  open  space,  several  feet  in  width,  lay  between. 
Could  it  be  that  Garda  had  climbed  up  this  insecure  heap, 
and  then  sprung  across  to  the  firm  ground  of  Patricio  be 
yond?  It  seemed  impossible;  and  yet,  unless  she  had  an 
enchanted  chariot  to  come  at  her  call,  she  must  have  done 
so,  for  there  was  no  other  way  by  which  she  could  have 
escaped.  Win  thro  p  now  essayed  to  follow  her.  But  it  was 
not  without  difficulty  that  he  succeeded  in  reaching  the  top ; 
for  it  was  not  so  much  a  question  of  strength  (of  which  he 
had  an  abundance)  as  of  lightness;  it  was  not  so  much  a 
question  of  a  good  hold,  as  of  no  hold  at  all ;  the  very  place, 
lie  said  to  himself,  for  feminine  climbing,  which  is  generally 
hap-hazard  clutches  diversified  by  screams.  At  length,  not 
without  much  fear  of  bringing  the  whole  pile  toppling  down 
upon  himself,  he  reached  the  summit,  and  from  an  insecure 
foothold  looked  across  to  the  firm  land.  Patricio  at  this 
point  was  covered,  at  a  short  distance  back  from  the  edge,  by 
a  grove  of  wild-myrtle  trees.  There  was  no  path,  but  the 
grove  was  not  dense,  Garda  could  have  passed  through  it 
anywhere;  there  was  no  sign  of  her  visible,  bnt  he  could  not 
see  far.  He  sprang  across,  and  went  inland  through  the 
myrtles,  his  course  defined  in  a  measure  by  the  thick  chapar 
ral  which  bordered  the  grove  on  each  side.  Suddenly  he 
heard  the  sound  of  voices;  he  pushed  on,  and  came  to  a  lit 
tle  open  space,  thickly  dotted  with  large  bright  flowers.  On 
the  farther  side  of  this  space  an  easel  had  been  set  up,  and 
a  young  man  was  at  work  sketching;  behind  this  young 
man,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  stood  Garda. 

As  Winthrop  came  out  from  the  myrtles,  "  How  long  you 
have  been !"  she  said.  Then,  "  Come  and  sec  this  sketch," 
she  went  on  immediately,  her  eyes  returning  to  the  picture. 
"  I've  never  seen  anything  so  pretty  in  my  life.'1 

As  Winthrop,  after  a  moment's  survey  of  the  scene,  came 
towards  her  over  the  flowers,  "Oh,"  she  said,  "I  forget  that 
you  don't  know  each  other.  Mr.  Winthrop,  Mr.  Lucian  Spen 
ser,  civil  engineer,  from  Washington,  the  District  of  Colum 
bia.  Mr.  Spenser,  Mr.  Evert  Winthrop  —  he  is  nothing  in 
particular  now,  I  believe — from  the  city  of  New  York." 


EAST  ANGELS.  159 

"  It's  an  occupation  in  itself,  isn't  it  ?  to  be  from  New 
York,"  said  the  artist,  going  on  with  his  sketching,  after  the 
little  motion,  half  nod,  half  wave  of  the  hand,  with  which  he 
had  acknowledged  Garda's  introduction.  Winthrop  in  the 
mean  while  had  neither  spoken  nor  bowed;  he  had  only,  as 
slightly  as  possible,  raised  his  hat. 

"  Why  do  you  stop  there  ?"  said  Garda.  She  came  to 
him,  took  his  arm,  and  led  him  behind  the  easel.  "  The 
picture — the  picture's  the  thing  to  look  at !" 

The  sketch — it  was  in  water-colors — represented  the  little 
arena,  which  was  in  itself  a  brilliant  picture,  done  by  Nature's 
hand.  It  was  an  open  oval  space  about  fifteen  feet  in  diam 
eter,  entirely  bare  of  trees  or  bushes,  and  covered  with  low 
green,  through  which  rose  lightly  slender  leafless  stalks,  each 
holding  up,  several  inches  above  the  herbage,  a  single  large 
bright-faced  flower;  the  flowers  did  not  touch  each  other, 
they  were  innumerable  spots  of  gold  and  bright  lavender, 
which  did  not  blend ;  on  three  sides  the  thick  dark  chapar 
ral,  on  the  fourth  the  dark  myrtles,  enclosed  thisgayly  decked 
nook,  and  seemed  to  have  kept  it  safely  from  all  the  world 
until  now.  The  artist  was  making  a  very  good  sketch,  good, 
that  is,  in  the  manner  of  the  new  foreign  school. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful — wonderful?"  insisted  Garda. 

"Very  clever,"  Winthrop  answered. 

The  artist  laughed.  "  You  hate  the  manner,"  he  said. 
"  Many  people  do ;  I  think  I  hate  it  a  little  myself,  now 
and  then."  And  he  began  to  sing  softly  to  himself  as  he 
worked : 

"  '  Oh,  dc  sun  shines  bright  in  my  olc  Kentucky  home, 
"Tis  summah,  de  darkies  are  gay — ' " 

'  'Twas  his  singing,  you  know,  that  attracted  my  atten 
tion,"  said  Garda  to  Winthrop,  under  cover  of  the  song. 
She  did  not  seem  to  be  explaining  so  much  as  repeating  a 
narrative  that  pleased  herself.  "  I  had  climbed  up  here  to 
hide  myself  from  you,  when  I  heard  singing ;  I  followed  the 
sound,  and — here  he  was  !" 

"You  have  met  him  before,  of  course?"  was  Winthrop's 
reply. 

"Never  in  the  world — that  is  the  beauty  of  it;  it's   so 


160  EAST   ANGELS. 

delightful  to  meet  people  you  have  never  met  before.  And 
then  to  find  him  here  in  the  woods,  where  I  didn't  expect 
to  see  anybody,  save  perhaps  you,  later,  coming  slowly  along. 
And  isn't  it  nice,  too,  that  we  shall  have  a  new  person  to 
add  to  our  excursions,  and  parties !  For  they  were  getting 
to  be  a  little  dull, — don't  you  think  so?  always  the  same 
people.  He  is  a  cousin  of  Mr.  Moore's,"  she  added,  "  or 
rather  his  mother  was;  he  has  just  been  telling  me  about 
it."  She  did  not  bring  out  this  last  fact  as  though  it  were 
the  most  important.  Important  ? — the  only  important  point 
was  that  she  should  be  pleased.  She  had  kept  Winthrop's 
arm  during  this  time ;  now  she  relinquished  it,  and  turned 
back  to  the  easel. 

"'Dc  corn-tops  ripe,  an*  de  meddars  all  abloom, 
In  my  ole  Kentucky  home  fur  away,'  " 

sang  the  stranger;  and  this  time  he  let  out  his  voice,  and 
sang  aloud.  It  was  a  very  good  voice.  But  Winthrop  did 
not  admire  it. 

"The  others  have  probably  no  idea  what  has  become  of 
us,"  he  said  to  Garda ;  "  shall  we  go  and  look  for  them  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Garda ;  "  of  course  they  must  be  won 
dering.  You  go ;  I  will  wait  here ;  go  and  bring  Mr.  Moore 
to  see  his  cousin." 

"  It  will  be  quite  easy  for  Mr. — for  this  gentleman — " 

"Spenser,"  said  the  artist,  good-humorcdly,  as  he  paint 
ed  on. 

" — to  see  Mr.  Moore  at  any  time  in  Gracias,"  continued 
Winthrop,  without  accepting  the  name.  For  the  life  of  him 
he  could  not  put  full  confidence  in  this  impromptu  relation 
ship  which  Garda  had  discovered,  any  more  than  he  could 
in  this,  as  one  might  say,  impromptu  man,  whom  she  had 
ulso  unearthed,  miles  from  any  inhabited  point,  on  a  wild 
shore.  If  the  stranger  were  indeed  a  cousin  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Moore's,  why  had  he  not  made  himself  known  to  him  before 
this?  He  must  have  come  through  Gracias;  Gracias  was  not. 
so  large  a  place  that  there  could  have  been  any  difficulty  in 
finding  the  rector  of  St.  Philip  and  St.  James' ;  nor  was  it 
so  busy  a  place  that  one  could  have  been  pressed  for  time 
there. 


EAST  ANGELS.  1G1 

"The  truth  is,"  answered  Spenser,  after  he  had  completed 
a  bit  of  work  vvhidi  seemed  much  to  his  mind — "the  truth 
is,"  he  repeated,  looking  at  it  critically,  with  his  head  on  one 
side,  "that  I  have,  so  far  at  least,  rather  shirked  ray  good 
cousin  ;  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  it  is  true.  You  see,  I 
only  faintly  remember  him  ;  but  he  will  very  clearly  remem 
ber  me,  he  will  have  reminiscences ;  he  will  be  sure  to  tell 
me  that  he  knew  me  when  I  was  a  dear  little  baby  !  Now 
I  maintain  that  no  man  can  really  welcome  that  statement, 
it  betokens  recollections  into  which  he  cannot  possibly  enter; 
all  he  can  do  is  to  smirk  inanely,  and  say  that  he  fears  he 
must  have  been  a  bad  little  boy." 

"I  know  Mr.  Moore  will  say  it,"  said  Garda,  gleefully;  "I 
know  he  will !  Do  go  and  call  him,"  she  said  to  Winthrop ; 
"lie  will  walk  down  to  Jupiter  Inlet  if  you  don't  stop  him." 

But  Winthrop  stood  his  ground ;  Mr.  Moore's  cousin  or 
not  Mr.  Moore's  cousin,  he  did  not  intend  to  leave  Garda 
Thome  alone  again  with  this  chance,  this  particularly  chance 
acquaintance.  True,  this  was  a  very  remote  place,  to  which 
city  rules  did  not  apply;  but  the  very  seclusion  had  been 
like  a  wall,  probably  the  girl  had  never  made  a  chance  ac 
quaintance  in  all  her  life  before. 

"  I  will  go  myself,  then,"  said  Garda,  seeing  that  he  did 
not  move.  She  did  not  seem  annoyed,  she  was,  in  truth, 
very  seldom  ill-tempered.  On  the  present  occasion  Win 
throp  might  have  been  better  pleased  if  she  had  showed 
some  little  signs  of  irritation ;  for  she  was  simply  not  think 
ing  of  him  at  all,  she  was  thinking  only  of  Mr.  Moore's 
cousin. 

She  crossed  the  flower-decked  space  quickly,  and  entered 
the  myrtle  grove;  Winthrop  followed  her.  When  they 
reached  the  verge,  "There  they  are,"  she  said,  looking  south 
ward. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  am  to  get  you  down,"  said  Win 
throp.  "You  could  jump  across  from  the  drift-wood,  but 
you  cannot  jump  back  upon  it;  it's  not  steady." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  down,"  said  Garda.  "They  must 
come  up."  And  she  called,  in  a  long  note,  "  Mar — garet !" 
"  Mar — garet !" 

Mrs.  Harold  heard  her  and  turned. 
11 


162  EAST  ANGELS. 

"There!  I've  called  her  Margaret  to  her  face!"  exclaimed 
the  girl. 

"  To  her  back,  you  mean." 

"  I  never  did  it  before.  But  I  was  sure  to  do  it  some 
time;  we  always  call  her  Margaret  when  we  talk  about  her, 
mamma  and  I ;  and  we  talk  about  her  by  the  hour." 

"  Mr.  Moore  and  I  together  can  perhaps  get  you  down," 
said  Winthrop,  trying  the  edge  of  the  sand-cliff  to  see  if  a 
niche  could  be  trodden  out. 

"  How  odd  you  are — when  I  tell  you  I'm  not  going  down  ! 
The  others  are  to  come  up.  Mr.  Moore  will  be  enchanted  to 
see  his  cousin;  I  am  sure  /was — though  he  isn't  mine." 

Winthrop  asked  himself  whether  he  should  take  this  op 
portunity  to  give  this  beautiful  Florida  girl  a  first  lesson  in 
worldly  wisdom.  Then  he  reflected  that  what  he  had  ad 
mired  the  most  in  her  had  been  her  frank  naturalness,  the 
freedom  with  which  she  had  followed  her  impulses,  without 
pausing  to  think  whither  they  might  lead  her.  So  far,  her 
impulses  had  all  been  child-like,  charming.  As  regarded  this 
present  one,  though  it  was  child-like  also,  he  would  have  liked, 
with  it,  a  little  more  discrimination ;  but  discrimination  is 
eminently  a  trait  developed  by  time,  and  time,  of  course,  had 
not  yet  had  a  chance  to  do  much  for  Edgarda  Thornc. 

He  decided  to  leave  her  to  herself,  and  to  return  for  the 
moment  to  his  old  position  (from  which  he  had  rather  de 
parted  of  late),  the  position  of  looking  on,  without  comment, 
to  see  what  she  would  do  or  say  next.  What  she  did  was 
simple  enough.  She  directed,  with  much  merriment,  the  ef 
forts  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  as  in  response  to  her  request  lie 
climbed  up  the  jagged  pile  of  drift-wood  first,  in  order  to 
show  Mrs.  Harold  the  best  footholds,  his  butterfly  pole  much 
in  his  way,  but  not  relinquished ;  for  had  not  that  butter 
fly  flown  inland?  When  he  was  safely  landed  on  Patricio, 
Margaret  Harold  followed  him.  Winthrop,  in  spite  of  the 
difficulties  of  descent,  wished  to  come  down  and  assist  her ; 
but  this  she  would  not  allow,  and  assistance,  indeed,  was 
plainly  worse  than  useless  in  such  a  place.  Nor  did  she  be 
tray  any  need  of  it ;  she  climbed  with  an  ease  which  showed 
a  light  foot  and  accurate  balance,  and  was  soon  standing  by 
Garda's  side. 


EAST  ANGELS.  163 

When  they  reached  the  little  flower  cove  it  immediately 
became  apparent  that  the  mother  of  this  singing,  painting 
stranger  had  really  been  (she  had  been  dead  many  years)  a 
cousin  of  Middleton  Moore's,  Winthrop  himself,  unless  he 
was  prepared  to  believe  in  an  amount  of  plotting  for  which 
there  seemed  no  sufficient  motive,  being  forced  to  acknowl 
edge  the  truth  of  the  story.  The  conversation  between  the 
clergyman  and  Spenser  went  on  with  much  animation.  Mr. 
Moore  was  greatly  interested,  he  was  even  excited;  and  they 
talked  of  many  things.  At  last  he  said,  with  feeling,  "I 
remember  you  so  well,  Lucian,  as  a  baby  ;  I  was  in  the  same 
house  with  you  once  for  a  whole  week  when  you  were  just 
able  to  walk  alone." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  I  am  afraid  I  was  rather  a  bad  little  boy," 
Spenser  answered. 

"You  were  rather — rather  animated,"  the  clergyman  ad 
mitted,  mildly. 

Garda,  who,  as  usual,  had  her  arm  in  Margaret's,  leaned 
her  head  on  Margaret's  shoulder  and  gave  way  to  soft 
laughter. 

Middleton  Moore  talked,  enjoying  his  adventure  greatly. 
But  though  he  talked,  he  did  not  question,  he  was  too  com 
plete  a  southerner  for  that ;  he  leaned  on  his  butterfly  pole, 
and  regarded  Lucian  with  the  utmost  friendliness,  not  think 
ing,  apparently,  of  the  fact  that  he  had  come  upon  this  in 
teresting  young  relative  quite  by  chance,  and  that  this  same 
young  relative  must  have  passed  through  Gracias  (if  indeed 
he  were  not.  staying  there)  without  paying  him  a  visit,  though 
he  knew  that  his  cousin  was  rector  of  St.  Philip  and  St. 
James' ;  he  had  confessed  as  much.  Lucian.  who  had  left 
his  easel,  now  moved  towards  it  again,  and  stood  scanning 
his  work  with  the  painter's  suddenly  absorbed  gaze  —  as 
though  he  had  forgotten,  for  the  moment,  everything  else 
in  the  world  but  that ;  then  he  sat  down,  as  if  unable  to  re 
sist  it,  and  began  to  add  a  touch  or  two,  while  (with  his  dis 
engaged  faculties)  he  was  good  enough  to  give  to  his  cousin, 
of  his  own  accord,  a  brief  account  of  himself  in  the  present, 
as  well  as  the  past.  It  seemed  that  he  was  by  profession 
a  civil  engineer  (as  ho  had  already  told  Garda),  and  that  the 
party  of  which  he  was  chief  were  engaged  in  surveying  for 


164  EAST  ANGELS. 

a  proposed  railway,  which  would  reach  Gracias-a-Dios  (he 
thought)  in  about  seventy -five  years.  However,  that  was 
nothing  to  him ;  there  was  undoubtedly  a  company  (they 
had  got  an  English  lord  in  it),  and  he,  Lncian,  was  willing 
to  survey  for  them,  if  it  amused  them  to  have  surveying 
done ;  that  part  of  the  scheme,  at  least,  was  paid  for.  His 
party  were  now  some  distance  north  of  Gracias,  they  had 
reached  one  of  the  swamps;  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  it 
was  a  good  time  to  take  a  day  or  two,  and  come  down  and 
see  the  little  old  town  on  the  coast;  and  as  he  was  a  dab 
bler  in  water-colors,  he  had  not  been  able  to  resist  doing 
some  of  the  little  "  bits  "  he  had  found  under  his  hand.  "  I 
was  coming  to  see  you,  sir,  to-morrow,"  he  concluded.  "  The 
truth  is,  I  had  only  these  rough  clothes  with  me;  I  have 
sent  back  for  more." 

"  To  the  swamp  ?"  said  Garda. 

"  To  the  swamp — precisely  ;  I  keep  them  there  very  care 
fully  in  a  dry  canoe." 

"You  must  not  only  come  and  see  us,  Lucian,  you  must 
come  and  stay  with  us,"  said  the  clergyman,  cordially  ;  "  Pe 
nelope  will  hear  of  nothing  else,"  he  added,  bending  in  his 
near-sighted  way  to  look  at  the  picture,  and  putting  his  nose 
close  to  Lucian's  pinks  and  blues.  "  Isn't  it  rather — rather 
bright?"  he  asked,  blinking  a  little  as  he  drew  back.  Mr. 
Moore's  idea  of  a  picture  was  a  landscape  with  a  hill  in  the 
background,  a  brook  and  willows  in  front,  a  church  spire 
peeping  out  somewhere  in  the  middle  distance,  and  a  cow  or 
two  at  the  brook's  edge,  all  painted  in  a  dark,  melancholy — 
what  he  himself  would  have  called  a  chaste — green,  even  the 
cow  partaking  in  some  degree  of  that  decorous  hue. 

"  It's  not  brighter  than  the  reality,  is  it?"  said  Lucian. 

"  I  —  don't  —  know,"  answered  Mr.  Moore,  straightening 
himself,  and  looking  about  him  as  if  to  observe  the  reality, 
which  he  evidently  was  now  noting  for  the  first  time.  "  You 
have  put  in  a  butterfly,"  he  added,  returning  to  his  inspec 
tion;  "that  is — if  it  isn't  a  bird?  There  are  no  butterflies 
here  now ;  has  there  been  one  here  ?" 

"There  should  have  been  ;  it's  the  very  place  for  them," 
Lucian  declared. 

"  1  don't  think,  Lucian,  thai  there's  any  certainty  about 


EAST  ANGELS.  165 

that;  I  myself  have  often  searched  for  them  in  places  where 
it  seemed  to  me  they  should  be ;  they  are  never  there." 

Garda  again  gave  way  to  merriment,  hiding  it  and  her  face 
on  Margaret's  shoulder. 

"Hasn't  your  sky  rather  too  vivid  a  blue,  Lucian?"  Mr. 
Moore  went  on,  his  face  again  close  to  the  picture. 

"  Well,  sir,  that's  as  we  see  it ;  /  see  that  color  in  the  sky, 
you  know." 

"  How  can  you  see  it  if  it  is  not  there  ?"  demanded  his  rel 
ative,  with  his  temperate  dwelling  upon  his  point.  And  he 
transferred  his  gaze  from  the  sketch  to  the  young  man. 

"  But  it  is  there  for  me.  It's  the  old  question  of  the  two 
kinds  of  truth." 

"  There  are  not  two  kinds,  I  think,  Lucian,"  responded  the 
clergyman,  and  this  time  he  spoke  with  decision. 

"  There  are  two  ways  of  seeing  it,  then.  We  state  or  be 
lieve  a  thing  as  we  see  it,  and  we  do  not  all  see  alike ;  you 
sec  the  hues  of  a  sunset  in  one  way,  Turner  saw  them  in  an 
other  ;  he  painted  certain  skies,  and  people  said  there  were 
no  such  skies ;  but  Turner  saw  them." 

"The  fault  was  still  there,  Lucian  ;  it  was  in  his  vision." 

"  Or  take  another  instance,"  continued  Spenser.  "  A  man 
has  a  wife  whom  he  loves.  She  has  grown  old  and  faded, 
there  is  no  trace  of  beauty  left ;  but  he  still  sees  her  as  she  was ; 
to  him  she  does  not  merely  seem  beautiful,  she  is  beautiful." 

The  eyes  of  Garda  and  Margaret  met,  one  of  those  rapid 
exchanges  of  a  mutual  comprehension  which  are  always  pass 
ing  between  women  unless  they  happen  to  be  open  enemies; 
even  then  they  are  sometimes  forced  to  suspend  hostilities 
long  enough  for  one  of  these  quick  passwords  of  intelligence ; 
— men  are  so  slow  !  The  mutual  thought  of  the  two  women 
now  was — Mrs.  Penelope.  Certainly  she  was  old  and  faded, 
and  very  certainly  also  her  husband  regarded  her  as  much  of 
a  Venus  as  it  was  proper  for  a  clerical  household  to  possess. 
Their  entertainment  continued  as  they  saw  that  the  clergy 
man  made  no  personal  application  of  Spenser's  comparison, 
but  merely  considered  the  illustration  rather  an  immoral  one. 

As  if  to  change  the  subject,  this  good  man  now  demand 
ed,  in  his  equable,  unresonant  voice,  "  How  do  you  return  to 
.Gracias,  Lucian  ?" 


166  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  There's  a  contraband  with  a  dug-out  waiting  for  me  over 
on  the  Espiritu  side,"  answered  Spenser;  "I  walked  across." 

"  Ah !  we  are  sailing,"  remarked  the  clergyman,  in  a  gen 
tly  superior  tone ;  little  as  he  himself  enjoyed  maritime  ex 
cursions,  he  felt  that  this  was  the  proper  tone  to  take  in  the 
presence  of  his  host,  the  owner  of  the  Emperadora.  "  We 
shall  reach  home,  probably,  much  earlier  than  you  will,"  he 
went  on,  looking  off  at  the  chaparral  with  an  abstracted  air. 

Winthrop,  smiling  at  this  innocent  little  manoeuvre,  in 
vited  Spenser  to  return  to  Gracias  with  them ;  he  could  send 
one  of  his  men  across  to  tell  the  contraband  of  the  chano-e  of 
plan.  Spenser  accepted  the  offer  promptly.  He  packed  his 
scattered  belongings  into  small  compass,  and  slung  them 
across  his  shoulder;  his  easel,  under  his  manipulation,  be 
came  a  stout  walking-stick. 

"  That  is  a  very  convenient  arrangement,"  said  the  clergy 
man. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  rather  proud  of  it.     I  invented  it  myself." 

"  Ah,  that's  your  father  in  you,"  said  Mr.  Moore,  uncon 
sciously  betraying  something  that  was  almost  disapproval ; 
"  your  father  was  a  northern  man.  But  your  mother,  Lucian, 
was  a  thorough  southerner ;  she  had  no  taste  for  invention." 

"  She  wouldn't  have  had  it  even  if  she  had  been  a  north 
ern  woman,  I  fancy,"  responded  Spenser ;  "  women  are  not 
inventors.  I  don't  mind  saying  it  before  Mrs.  Harold  and 
Miss  Thome,  because  they  haven't  the  air  of  wishing  to  be ; 
it's  a  particular  sort  of  air,  you  know." 

"Is  your  invention  strong?"  asked  Winthrop.  "I  don't 
know  how  we  are  going  to  get  the  ladies  down  to  the  beach, 
unless  we  make  a  perch  for  them  by  driving  that  stick  of 
yours  and  Mr.  Moore's  butterfly  pole  into  the  sand-drift  half 
way  down.  From  there,  with  our. help,  they  might  perhaps 
jump  the  rest  of  the  distance;  we  should  have  to  tread  out 
some  sort  of  footing  for  ourselves." 

Mr.  Moore  involuntarily  glanced  at  his  green  pole,  and 
then  at  Margaret  and  Garda,  as  if  estimating  their  weight. 

"  We  shall  certainly  snap  it  in  two,"  exclaimed  Garda,  gay- 
ly.  "  Snip,  snap,  gone  !" 

"  But  there's  a  descent  not  so  very  far  above  here,"  said 
Spenser;  "I've  found  it  once,  and  I  think,  if  you  will  trust 


EAST  ANGELS.  167 

me,  I  can  find  it  again."  He  led  the  way  into  the  chapar 
ral,  and  the  others  followed. 

The  chaparral,  a  thicket  of  little  evergreen  oaks,  rose,  round 
the  flower  cove,  to  a  height  of  ten  feet.  But  soon  it  grew 
lower,  and  they  came  out  upon  a  broad  stretch  of  it  not 
much  over  four  or  four  and  a  half  feet  in  height,  very  even 
on  the  top,  extending  unbroken  to  the  south  as  far  as  they 
could  see,  and  rising  gently  on  the  west,  in  the  same  even 
sweep,  over  the  small  ridge  that  formed  Patricio's  backbone  ; 
their  heads. were  now  well  above  the  surface  of  this  leafy  sea, 

"  There's  my  track,"  said  Spenser. 

It  was  a  line  which  had  been  made  across  the  foliage  by 
his  passage  through  it ;  the  leaves  had  been  rippled  back  a 
little,  so  that  there  was  a  trail  visible  on  the  green  surface 
like  that  left  by  a  boat  which  has  passed  over  a  smooth  pond  ; 
they  made  their  way  towards  this  trail. 

The  little  oaks  were  not  thorny,  but  their  small  stubborn 
branches  grew  as  closely  at  the  bottom  as  at  the  top,  so  that 
it  was  necessary  to  push  with  the  ankles  as  well  as  with  the 
shoulders  in  order  to  get  through. 

"  Deep  wading,"  said  Lucian,  who  led  the  way. 

"  Wading?"  said  Garda.  "Drowning!  These  leaves  are 
like  waves.  And  I'm  sure  that  fishes  are  biting  my  ankles. 
Or  else  snakes !  I  shall  sink  soon  ;  you'll  hear  a  gurgle,  and 
I  shall  have  gone." 

Spenser,  laughing,  turned  and  made  his  way  back  to  her 
from  the  front  at  the  same  moment  that  Winthrop,  who  was 
last,  pushed  his  way  forward  from  behind ;  they  reached  her 
at  the  same  moment,  and  placed  themselves,  one  on  each 
side,  so  that  they  could  make  her  progress  easier. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  who  had  been  calling  back  a  careful 
explanation  that  the  Florida  snakes,  that  is,  the  dangerous 
ones,  were  not  found  in  chaparral,  was  now  left  at  the  head 
of  the  party,  to  keep  the  course  for  them  by  the  line  of  rip 
pled  leaves.  This  duty  he  performed  with  much  circum 
spection,  lifting  the  long  butterfly  pole  high  in  the  air  every 
•  now  and  then,  and  stretching  it  forward  as  far  as  he  could 
to  tap  the  line  of  rippled  leaves,  as  much  as  to  say,  "There 
you  are;  quite  safe."  lie  had  the  air  of  a  magician  with 
his  wand. 


168  EAST  ANGELS. 

"I  shall  have  to  stop  for  a  moment,"  said  Margaret  Har 
old,  after  a  while,  speaking  for  the  first  time  since  their  en 
trance  into  the  chaparral ;  she  was  next  to  Mr.  Moore  in 
their  little  procession,  but  a  distance  of  ten  or  fifteen  feet 
separated  them,  while  Garda,  with  Spenser  and  Winthrop, 
xvas  at  a  still  greater  distance  behind.  Winthrop  waited 
only  an  instant  after  she  had  spoken  (long  enough,  however, 
to  give  Spenser  and  the  clergyman  the  opportunity,  in  case 
they  should  desire  it) ;  he  then  made  his  way  forward  and 
joined  her.  -.,•«-. -; 

"Here — lean  on  me,"  he  said,  quickly,  as  soon  as  he  saw 
her  face ;  he  thought  she  was  going  to  faint. 

Margaret,  though  she  was  pale,  smiled,  and  declined  his 
help;  she  only  wished  to  rest  for  a  moment,  she  said;  the 
chaparral  had  tired  her.  She  stood  still,  embosomed  in  the 
foliage,  her  eyes  closed,  the  long  dark  lashes  lying  on  her 
cheeks.  Winthrop  could  see  now  more  clearly  how  delicate 
her  face  was ;  he  remembered,  too,  that  though  she  was  tall, 
she  was  a  slender  woman,  with  slender  little  hands  and  feet; 
her  grace  of  step,  though  remarkable,  had  probably  not  been 
of  much  use  in  forcing  a  way  through  chaparral.  But  her 
cheeks  were  growing  whiter,  he  was  afraid  she  would  fall 
forward  among  the  bristling  little  branches ;  he  pushed  his 
way  nearer  and  supported  her  with  his  arm.  Garda  mean 
while,  her  fatigue  forgotten,  had  started  to  come  to  her  friend, 
Spenser  helping  her,  while  Mr.  Moore,  his  pole  carefully  held 
out  over  the  trail  (as  though  otherwise  it  would  disappear), 
watched  them  with  anxiety  from  the  front. 

But  now  Margaret  was  recovering,  the  color  had  come 
back  to  her  face  in  a  flood ;  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  imme 
diately  began  to  push  her  way  forward  again,  as  if  she  wished 
to  show  Winthrop  that  he  need  have  no  further  fears.  He 
stayed  to  aid  her,  nevertheless. 

"  Why  didn't  you  go  to  her  ?"  said  Garda  to  Lucian  Spen 
ser,  as  they  resumed  their  former  pace  after  Margaret's  re 
covery.  "  I  mean  why  didn't  you  start  before  Mr.  Winthrop 
did?  There  was  time?' 

"  He  had  the  better  right ;  he  knows  her." 

"  It  wasn't  a  question  of  knowing,  but  of  helping.  As  to 
knowing — -you  don't  know  me." 


EAST  ANGELS.  169 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do !"  answered  Spenser. 

"But  you  have  never  seen  me  until  to-day.  Now  please 
don't  tell  me  that  I  am  so  much  like  some  one  else  that  you 
feel  as  if  you  had  known  me  for  ages." 

"You  are  like  no  one  else,  your  type  exists  only  in  dreams 
— the  dreams  of  artists  mad  on  color.  It's  in  my  dreams 
that  I  have  seen  you,"  he  went  on,  surveying  her  with  the 
frankest,  the  most  enjoying  admiration.  "Aren't  you  glad 
you're  so  beautiful  ?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Garda,  with  serene  gravity".  "  I  am  very 
glad  indeed." 

They  came  before  long  to  the  descent  of  which  he  had 
spoken ;  it  was  a  miniature  gorge,  which  led  down  to  the 
beach  in  the  scallop  where  Garda  had  begun  her  race.  As 
soon  as  they  reached  the  lower  level,  Garda  went  to  Margaret 
and  took  her  hands.  "Do  you  really  feel  better!"  she  said. 
"  We'll  stay  here  a  while  and  rest." 

Margaret  refused,  saying  that  the  feeling  of  fatigue  had 
passed  away. 

"You  have  got  more  color  than  usual,"  said  Garda,  scan 
ning  her  face. 

"A  sure  sign  that  I  am  perfectly  well  again,"  answered 
Margaret,  smiling. 

"A  sure  sign  that  you  are  very  tired,"  said  Evert  Winthrop. 

Margaret  made  no  reply,  she  began  to  walk  northward, 
with  Garda,  up  the  beach ;  Lucian  Spenser  kept  his  place  on 
the  other  side  of  Garda ;  but  Winthrop  joined  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Moore,  who  was  alone. 

Mr.  Moore  improved  the  occasion,  he  related  the  entire  his 
tory  of  the  Spenser,  or  rather  the  Byrd  family,  the  family 
of  Lucian's  mother  (connections  of  the  celebrated  Colonel 
Byrd).  That  is,  their  history  in  the  past;  as  to  the  present 
and  its  representative,  he  seemed  quite  without  information. 

The  present  representative  spent  several  days  at  the  rec 
tory  ;  and  probably  imparted  the  information  which  was  lack 
ing.  During  his  visit  he  formed  one,  as  Garda  had  antici 
pated,  of  the  various  little  parties  which  Betty  still  continued 
to  arrange  and  carry  out  for  the  entertainment  of  her  dearest 
Katrina;  then  he  took  leave  of  the  rector  and  his  wife,  and 
returned  to  the  camp  in  the  swamp. 


170  EAST  ANGELS. 

Three  days  later  he  came  back  to  remain  some  time ;  he 
took  a  room  at  the  Seminole,  saying  that  his  hours  were  quite 
too  uncertain  for  a  well-regulated  household  like  that  of  the 
Moo  res. 

His  hours  proved  to  be  uncertain  indeed,  save  that  a  cer 
tain  number  of  them  were  sure  to  be  spent  with  Garda 
I  home.  A  few  also  were  spent  in  bringing  Torres  out  of 
his  seclusion.  For  Lucian  took  a  fancy  to  the  youno-  Cuban  • 
"  I  don't  think  you  half  appreciate  him,"  he  said,  in  his  easv' 
unattached  way  —  unattached  to  any  local  view.  "He's 'a 
perfect  mine  of  gold  in  the  way  of  peculiarities  and  precious 
oddities;  he  repays  you  every  time." 

"I  was  not  aware  that  oddities  had  so  much  value  in  the 
market,"  remarked  Dr.  Kirby,  dryly. 

14  My  dear  sir,  the  greatest !"  said  Lucian,  still  in  his  de 
tached  tone. 

The  Doctor  was  not  very  fond  of  Lucian.  The  truth  was, 
the  Doctor  did  not  like  to  be  called  "  my  dear  sir ;"  the  posses 
sive  pronoun  and  the  adjective  made  a  different  thing  of  it 
from  his  own  Johnsonian  mode  of  address. 

"/appreciate  Mr.  Torres,"  Garda  remarked,  "  I  always  have 
appreciated  him.  He's  like  a  thunder-cloud  on  the  edge  of 
the  sky ;  you  feel  that  he  could  give  out  some  tremendous 
flashes  if  he  pleased ;  some  day  he  will  please." 

"Til  tell  him  that,"  said  Spenser,  who,  among  his  other  ac 
complishments,  had  that  of  speaking  Spanish. 

Whether  he  told  or  not,  the  young  Cuban  at  any  rate  ap 
peared  among  them  again.  He  was  tired,  possibly,  of  the 
consumption  of  his  soul.  But  there  was  this  ad&nt&re 
about  Torres,  that  though  he  might  consume  his  own,  he  had 
no  desire  to  consume  the  soul  (or  body  either)  of  any  one 
else;  whereas  Manuel  appeared  to  cherish  this  wish  to  an 
absolutely  sanguinary  degree.  The  dislike  he  had  had  for 
Evert  Winthrop  was  nothing  compared  with  the  rage  with 
which  he  now  regarded  Lucian  Spenser.  To  tell  the  truth, 
Lucian  trespassed  upon  his  own  ground  :  if  Manuel  was  hand 
some,  Lucian  was  handsomer  still.  "A  finer-lookino-  youno- 
man  than  Lucian  Spenser,"  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  more  than 
once  remarked,  "is  very  seldom  seen."  And  Kate  Ruther 
ford  was  a  judge. 


EAST  ANGELS.  171 

Lucian  having  no  horse,  as  Winthrop  had,  could  not,  as 
Garda  expressed  it,  ride  over  the  pine  barrens  in  every  di 
rection  and  stop  at  East  Angels ;  but  he  had  a  fisherman's 
black  boat,  with  ragged  sail,  and  though  it  was  not  an  Em- 
peradora,  it  could  still  float  down  the  Espiritu  with  sufficient 
swiftness,  giving  its  occupant  an  opportunity  to  stop  at  the 
same  old  Spanish  residence,  where  there  was  a  convenient 
water-landing  as  well  as  an  entrance  from  the  barrens.  The 
occupant  stopped  so  often,  and  his  manner  when  he  did  stop 
was  so  different  from  that  of  their  other  visitors,  that  Mrs. 
Thome  felt  at  last  that  duty  demanded  that  she  should 
"make  inquiries."  This  duty  had  never  been  esteemed  one 
of  the  principal  ones  of  life  at  Gracias-a-Dios ;  Mrs.  Thome's 
determination,  therefore,  showed  that  her  original  New  Eng 
land  maxims  were  alive  somewhere  down  in  her  composition 
still  (as  Betty  Carew  had  always  declared  that  they  were), 
in  spite  of  the  layer  upon  layer  of  Thorne  and  Duero  tradi 
tions  with  which  she  had  carefully  overlaid  them.  She  was 
aware  that  it  was  a  great  inconsistency  on  her  part  to  revert, 
at  this  late  day,  to  the  methods  of  her  youth.  But  what 
could  she  do  ?  The  Thornes  and  Dueros  were  dead,  and  had 
left  no  precedents  for  a  case  like  this ;  and  Lucian  Spenser  was 
alive  (particularly  so),  and  with  Garda  almost  all  the  time. 

"  She  asked  me,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  to  his  wife, 
"  what  I  knew,  that  was  '  definite,'  about  Lucian,  which 
seemed  to  me,  Penelope,  a  very  singular  question,  Lucian  be 
ing  so  near  and  dear  a  relative  of  ours.  I  did  not,  however, 
comment  upon  this ;  I  simply  gave  her  a  full  account  of  the 
Spenser  family,  or  rather  of  the  Byrds,  his  mother's  side  of 
the  house,  going  back  (in  order  to  be  explicit)  through  three 
generations.  Strange  to  say,  this  did  not  appear  to  satisfy 
her;  I  will  not  say  that  she  interrupted  me,  for  she  did  not; 
but  she  had  nevertheless,  in  some  ways,  an  appearance  of— 
of  being  perhaps  somewhat  impatient." 

"  Oh,  /  know  !"  said  Mrs.  Moore,  nodding  her  head.  "  She 
coughed  behind  her  hand ;  and  she  shook  out  her  handker 
chief,  holding  it  by  the  exact  middle  between  her  forefinger 
and  thumb ;  and  she  tapped  on  the  floor  with  the  point  of 
her  slipper ;  and  she  settled  her  cuffs  ;  and  then  she  coughed 
again." 


172  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  she  did !  You  have  a  wonderful 
insight,  Penelope,"  said  her  husband,  admiringly. 

"  Give  me  a  woman,  and  I'll  unravel  her  for  you  in  no  time 
— in  no  time  at  all,"  answered  Penelope.  "  But  men  are  dif 
ferent — 50  much  deeper;  you  yourself  are  very  deep,  Mid 
dleton." 

The  clergyman  stroked  his  chin  meditatively  ;  his  eyes  wan 
dered,  and  after  a  while  rested  peacefully  on  the  floor. 

"There!  I  know  just  what  you're  thinking  of  now,"  re 
sumed  his  wife  from  her  sofa ;  "  I  can  tell  you  every  word  !" 

Her  husband,  who  at  that  moment  was  thinking  of  noth 
ing  at  all,  unless  it  might  be  of  a  worn  place  which  he  had 
detected  in  the  red  and  white  matting  at  his  feet,  raised  his 
eyes  and  looked  at  her  with  amiable  expectancy.  He  had 
long  ago  learned  to  acquiesce  in  all  the  discoveries  respecting 
himself  made  by  his  clever  Penelope ;  he  even  believed  in 
them  after  a  vague  fashion,  and  was  much  interested  in  hear 
ing  the  latest.  But  he  was  so  unmitigatedly  modest,  he  took 
such  impersonal  views  of  everything,  including  himself,  that 
he  could  listen  to  her  eulogistic  divinations  by  the  hour  with 
out  the  least  real  appropriation  of  them,  as  though  they  had 
been  spoken  of  some  one  else.  He  thought  them  very  won 
derful,  and  he  thought  her  almost  a  sibyl  as  she  brought  them 
forth ;  but  no  glow  of  self-appreciation  followed,  this  frugal 
man  was  not  easily  made  to  glow.  At  present,  when  his  wife 
had  unrolled  before  him  the  interesting  thoughts  which  she 
knew  he  was  thinking  (and  the  rector  himself  was  always  of 
the  opinion  that  he  must  be  thinking  them  somewhere,  in 
some  remote  part  of  his  mind  which  for  the  moment  he  had 
forgotten),  she  concluded,  triumphantly,  as  follows:  "lean 
always  tell  what  you  are  thinking  of  from  the  expression  of 
your  face,  Middleton ;  it's  not  in  the  least  necessary  for  you 
to  speak."  Which  was  on  the  whole,  perhaps,  fortunate  for 
Middleton. 

Mrs.  Thome,  not  having  succeeded  in  obtaining  "  definite  " 
information  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  addressed  herself,  at 
length,  to  Evert  Winthrop.  Something  that  was  almost  a 
friendship  had  established  itself  between  these  two;  Mrs. 
Thome  found  Winthrop  very  "  satisfying,"  she  mentioned 
that  she  found  him  so ;  she  mentioned  it  to  Margaret  Har- 


EAST  ANGELS.  173 

old,  with  whom,  also,  she  now  had  an  acquaintance  which 
was  almost  intimate,  though  in  this  case  the  intimacy  had 
been  formed  and  kept  up  principally  by  herself.  "  Yes,  ex 
tremely  satisfying,"  she  repeated ;  "  on  every  subject  of  im 
portance  he  has  definite  information,  or  a  definite  opinion, 
and  these  he  gives  you — when  you  ask  for  them — with  the 
utmost  clearness.  Touch  him  anywhere,"  continued  the  lady, 
tapping  her  delicately  starched  handkerchief  (which  she  held 
up  for  the  purpose)  with  her  little  knuckle,  "anywhere,  I 
say,"  she  went  on,  still  tapping,  "  and — he  resounds." 

"Dear  me,  mamma!  is  he  hollow?"  said  Gard  a,  while  Mar 
garet  gave  way  to  laughter.  But  Mrs.  Thome  liked  even  Mar 
garet's"  laughs  ;  Margaret  too  she  found  "  very  satisfying,"  she 
said. 

When  she  spoke  to  Winthrop  about  Lucian  Spenser,  how 
ever,  she  found  him  perhaps  not  so  satisfying  as  usual. 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  Mr.  Spenser,"  he  an 
swered. 

"  We  ave  seeing  a  good  deal  of  him  at  present,"  remarked 
the  little  mother,  in  a  conversational  tone,  ignoring  his  reply. 
"  It's  rather  better — don't  you  think  so  ?— to  know  something 
— definite — of  those  one  is  seeing  a  good  deal  of  ?" 

"  That  is  the  way  to  learn,  isn't  it — -seeing  a  good  deal  of 
them  ?"  Winthrop  answered. 

Mrs.  Thorne  coughed  in  her  most  discreet  manner,  and 
looked  about  the  room  for  a  •moment  or  two.  Then,  "  Do 
you  like  him,  Mr.  Winthrop?"  she  said,  her  eyes  on  the  op 
posite  wall. 

"  My  dear  lady,  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Much,"  responded  Mrs.  Thorne,  modestly  dropping  her 
eyes  to  the  carpet.  ''  A  man's  opinion  of  a  man,  you  know, 
may  be  quite  different  from  a  woman's." 

"There  is  his  cousin,  Mr.  Moore." 

"I  have  already  asked  Mr.  Moore ;  he  knows  only  Mr. 
Spenser's  grandfathers,"  replied  Mrs.  Thorne,  dismissing  the 
clergyman,  as  informant,  with  a  wave  of  her  dry  little  hand. 

"l)r.  Kirby,  then." . 

"  Dr.  Kirby"  said  the  lady,  with  an  especial  emphasis  on 
the  name,  as  though  there  were  a  dozen  other  doctors  in 
Gracias — "  Dr.  Kirby  speaks  well  of  Mr.  Spenser.  But  we 


174  EAST  ANGELS. 

should  not  count  too  much  upon  that,  for  Dr.  Kirby  looks 
upon  him,  as  I  may  say,  medically." 

"  Good  heavens !  does  he  want  to  dissect  him  ?"  said  Win- 
throp. 

Mrs.  Thome  gave  her  guarded  little  laugh.  "  No  ;  but  he 
says  that  he  is  such  a  perfect  specimen,  physically,  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  at  his  hest.  He  may  be ;  I  am  sure  I  am  will 
ing.  But  we  are  not  all  ethnologists,  I  suppose,  and  some 
thing  more  definite  in  the  way  of  a  background  than  ancient 
Saxony,  or  even  Anglia,  would  be,  I  think,  desirable,  when, 
as  I  remarked  before,  one  is  seeing  so  much  of  a  person." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  which  Winthrop  did  not  break. 
Then  he  rose,  and  took  up  his  hat  and  whip ;  he  had  been 
paying  one  of  his  afternoon  visits  at  the  old  house.  "Don't 
be  uneasy,"  he  said,  in  the  half-protecting  tone  which  he  often 
adopted  now  when  speaking  to  the  little  mistress  of  East 
Angels ;  "  if  you  are  seeing  much  of  this  Mr.  Spenser,  you 
and  your  daughter,  you  must  remember  that  you  are  also 
seeing  much  of  others  as  well ;  of  Manuel  Ruiz,  of  young 
Torres,  even  of  myself;  there's  safety  in  numbers." 

"  Mr.  Spenser  is  not  in  the  least  like  any  of  you ;  that  is 
my  trouble,"  Mrs.  Thome  declared,  with  emphasis.  "  I  do 
not  mean,"  she  added,  with  her  anxious  particularity, "  that 
you  are  in  the  least  like  Manuel  or  Adolfo,  Mr.  Winthrop ; 
of  course  not." 

Winthrop  did  not  reply  to  this  beyond  a  smile.  He  'took 
leave,  and  went  towards  the  door. 

Mrs.  Thome's  gaze  followed  him;  then  with  her  quick 
step  she  crossed  the  room,  and  stopped  him  on  the  threshold. 
"  Mr.  Winthrop,  do  you  like  to  see  my  little  girl  showing 
such  an  interest  in  this  Lucian  Spenser?"  Her  voice  was  al 
most  a  whisper,  but  her  bright  eyes  met  his  bravely. 

For  a  moment  he  returned  her  gaze.  Then,  "  I  like  it  im 
mensely,"  he  said,  and  went  down  the  stairs. 

Soon  after  this,  however,  there  was  what  Mrs.  Thome  called 
"definite"  information  about  Lucian  Spenser  in  circulation 
in  Gracias ;  it  was  even  very  definite.  He  might  have  the 
background  of  honorable  grandfathers  which  Mr.  Moore  at 
tributed  to  him,  but  for  the  foreground  there  was  only  him 
self,  himself  without  any  of  the  adjuncts  of  wealth,  or  a  fixed 


EAST  ANGELS.  175 

income  of  any  kind,  even  the  smallest.  He  was  a  civil  en 
gineer  (apparently  not  a  very  industrious  one) ;  lie  had  what 
ever  emoluments  that  profession  could  bring  in  to  a  man  who 
painted  a  good  many  pictures  in  water-colors;  and  he  had 
nothing  more.  This  he  told  himself,  with  the  utmost  frank 
ness. 

"Nothing  more?"  commented  Mrs.  Rutherford,  with  ap 
preciative  emphasis.  "  But  he  has  always  his  wonderful  good 
looks;  that  in  itself  is  a  handsome  fortune." 

"His  good  looks,  I  confess,  /  have  never  seen,"  answered 
Mrs.  Thome,  who  was  paying  a  morning  visit  at  the  eyrie. 
Garda  was  at  that  moment  on  the  eyrie's  east  piazza  with 
Lucian,  and  the  mother  knew  it;  true,  Margaret  Harold,  Dr. 
Kirby,  and  Adolfo  Torres  were  there  also ;  but  Mrs.  Thorne 
had  no  difficulty  in  picturing  to  herself  the  success  with  which 
Lucian  was  engrossing  Garda's  attention. 

"  You've  never  seen  them  ?  You  must  be  a  little  blind,  I 
should  think,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  pleasantly.  Mrs.  Ruth 
erford  was  not  fond  of  Mrs.  Thorne. 

"  I  am  blind  to  the  mere  sensuous  delights  of  the  eye,n  re 
sponded  the  little  mother,  the  old  Puritan  fire  sparkling  for 
a  moment  in  her  own  blue  ones.  Then  she  controlled  her 
self.  "  I  cannot  admire  his  expression,"  she  explained.  "His 
nature  is  a  very  superficial  one;  I  am  surprised  that  Mrs. 
Harold  should  listen  to  him  as  she  does." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  remarked  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "  he  amuses 
her,  you  know ;  Margaret  and  I  are  both  very  fond  of  being 
amused.  However,  we  do  not  complain  ;  we  find  a  vast  deal 
of  amusement  in  Gracias ;  it's  a  very  funny  little  place,"  add 
ed  the  northern  lady,  with  much  tranquil  entertainment  in 
her  tone,  paying  back  with  her  "funny"  her  visitor's  "sen 
suous."  (Mrs.  Rutherford  could  always  be  trusted  to  pay 
back.) 

That  evening  she  announced  to  her  niece,  "Little  Madam 
Thorne  has  designs  upon  Evert." 

Margaret  looked  up  from  her  book.  "  Isn't  she  rather  old 
for  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"That  sort  of  thing?  Do  you  mean  designs?  Or  attrac 
tions?  Attraction  is  not  in  the  least  a  matter  of  age,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Rutherford,  with  dignity.  She  disposed  her 


176  EAST  ANGELS, 

statuesque  hands  upon  her  well-rounded  arms,  and  looked 
about  the  room  as  though  Margaret  were  not  there. 

"  I  meant  her  feelings,"  replied  Margaret,  smiling.  "  There's 
such  a  thing  as  age  in  feelings,  isn't  there?" 

"  Yes ;  and  in  manner  and  dress,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  ac 
cepting  this  compromise.  "Certainly  Mrs. Throne  is  a  marked 
example  of  all  three.  I  don't  think  any  one  of  our  family  ever 
looked  so  old  as  she  does,  even  at  ninety !  But  how  could  you 
suppose  I  meant  that  she  had  designs  upon  Evert  for  herself? 
For  Garda,  of  course." 

"  Garda  is  very  young." 

"  Why  don't  you  say  she's  a  child  !  That  is  what  they  all 
sav  here,  I  think  they  say  it  too  much.  To  be  sure,  she  is 
only  sixteen,  barely  that,  I  believe,  and  with  us,  girls  of  that 
age  are  immature ;  but  Garda  Thome  isn't  immature,  she 
talks  as  maturely  as  I  do." 

"She  does — in  some  ways,"  admitted  Margaret. 

"She.  talks, remarkably  ivell,  if  you  mean  that,"  responded 
Mrs.  Rutherford,  who  always  felt  called  upon  to  differ  from 
her  niece.  "And  she  is  certainly  quite  pretty." 

"  She  is  more  than  pretty  ;  she  is  strikingly  beautiful." 

"  Oh  no,  she  isn't,"  replied  Mrs.  Rutherford,  veering  again  ; 
"  you  exaggerate.  It's  only  because  you  sec  her  here  in  this 
dull  little  "place." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  the  same  anywhere,  Aunt  Kat.rina." 

"  Well,  we  shall  not  have  to  compare,  fortunately.  She 
will  stay  here,  of  course,  where  she  belongs,  she  will  probably 
marry  that  young  Torres.  But  that  little  ill-bred  mother's 
designs  upon  Evert — that  is  too  amusing.  Evert,  indeed ! 
Evert  has  more  coolness  and  discrimination  than  any  man  I 
have  ever  known." 

The  man  of  discrimination  was  at  that  moment  strolling 
slowly  through  the  St.  Luz  quarter,  on  his  way  to  the  Benito; 
he  reached  it,  and  walked  out  its  silver  floor.  The  tide  was 
coining  in.  On  that  low  coast  there  were  no  rocks,  the  waves 
reached  the  shore  in  long,  low,  unbroken  swells,  like  quiet 
breatliing ;  they  had  come  evenly  in  from  deep  water  out 
side,  and  now  flowed  softly  up  the  beach  a  little  way  and 
then  back  again,  with  a  rippling  murmurous  sound  that  was 
peace  itself.  Warm  as  was  the  land,  still  dreaming  of  the 


EAST  ANGELS.  177 

sun,  the  ocean  was  warmer  still ;  the  Gulf  Stream  flowed  by 
not  far  from  shore,  and  the  air  that  came  from  the  water 
was  soft  on  the  cheek  like  a  caress.  From  the  many  orange 
groves  of  the  town  dense  perfume  was  wafted  towards  him, 
he  walked  through  belts  of  it.  At  last,  at  the  point's  end, 
he  found  himself  bathed  in  it ;  he  threw  the  light  overcoat 
lie  had  been  carrying  down  upon  the  sand,  and  stretched 
himself  upon  it,  with  his  back  against  an  old  boat ;  lying 
there,  he  could  look  down  the  harbor  and  out  to  sea. 

He  was  thinking  a  little  of  the  scene  before  him,  but  more 
of  Garda — her  liking  for  the  new-comer.  For  she  had  con 
fessed  it  to  him  herself;  confessed,  however,  was  hardly  the 
term,  she  had  no  wish  apparently  to  conceal  anything;  she 
had  simply  told  him,  in  so  many  words,  that  she  had  nev 
er  met  or  known  any  one  so  delightful  as  Lucian  Spenser. 
Tliis  was  innocent  enough,  Garda  was,  in  truth,  very  childlike. 
True,  she  was  not  shy,  she  was  very  sure  of  herself ;  she 
talked  to  him  and  to  everybody  with  untroubled  ease.  Her 
frankness,  indeed,  was  the  great  thing ;  it  had  an  endless  at 
traction  for  Evert  Winthrop.  II is  idea  had  been  (and  a  very 
fixed  belief  it  had  grown  to  be)  that  no  girl  was  frank  after 
the  age  of  long  clothes;  that  the  pretty  little  creatures,  while 
still  toddling  about,  developed  the  instinct  to  be  "good"  rath 
er  than  outspoken  ;  and  that  the  "  better  "  they  were,  the 
more  obedient  and  docile,  the  less  outspoken  they  became. 
He  could  not  say  that  he  did  not  admire  obedience.  But  the 
flower  of  frankness  had  come  to  seem  to  him  the  most  fra 
grant  of  the  whole  bouquet  of  feminine  virtues,  as  it  certain 
ly  was  the  rarest.  He  had  told  Mrs.  Thome  that  he  liked  to 
see  Garda  show  her  preference  for  Spenser,  and  this  had  been 
true,  to  a  certain  extent ;  he  knew  that  he  had  felt  a  distinct 
pleasure  in  the  swiftness  with  which  she  had  turned  from  him 
to  the  younger  man  as  soon  as  she  found  that  the  younger 
man  pleased  her  more.  For  it  showed  that  she  was  not  touch 
ed  by  the  attractions  of  a  large  fortune,  that  they  were  not  at 
tractions  to  her ;  and  Winthrop  held  (he  knew  that  many  per 
sons  would  not  agree  with  him)  that  young  girls  are  more 
apt  to  be  influenced  by  wealth,  more  apt  to  be  dazzled  by  it, 
to  covet  it,  than  older  women  are.  The  older  women  know 
that  it  does  not  bring  happiness  in  its  train,  that  it  may  bring 

12 


178  EAST  ANGELS. 

great  unhappiness ;  the  young  girls  do  not  know,  and,  from 
their  very  ignorance,  they  do  not  care,  because  they  have  not 
learned  as  yet  what  a  cruel,  torturing  pain  unhappiness  may 
be.  Garda  Thome  was  poor, and  even  very  poor;  she  had  a 
strong  natural  taste  for  luxury.  Yet  her  passing  amusement 
was  evidently  far  more  to  her  than  anything  else ;  she  sim 
ply  did  not  give  a  thought  to  the  fortune  that  lay  near.  And 
even  her  amusement  was  founded  upon  nothing  stable ;  Luci- 
an,  though  she  considered  him  so  delightful,  was  by  no  means 
devoted  to  her.  He  openly  admired  her  beauty  (Winthrop 
thought  too  openly),  he  preferred  her  society  to  that  of  any 
one  in  Gracias;  but  all  could  see  that  Gracias  was  probably 
the  limit,  that  in  other  and  larger  places  he  would  find  others 
to  admire ;  that  he  was,  in  short,  a  votary  of  variety.  In  spite 
of  this,  Garda  found  him  supremely  entertaining,  and  that  was 
enough  for  her;  she  followed  him  about,  always,  however,  in 
her  indolent  way,  in  which  there  was  no  trace  of  eagerness. 
But  if  she  were  not  eager,  she  seemed  to  consider  him  her  own 
property ;  she  always  wished  to  be  near  him,  so  that  she  could 
hear  all  he  was  saying,  she  laughed  far  oftener  when  with  him 
than  she  did  when  with  any  one  else. 

Winthrop  was  always  attracted  by  Garda's  lau^h ;  he 
seemed  to  hear  it  again  as  he  lay  there  in  the  moonlight, 
breathing  the  dense  perfume  from  the  groves,  and  looking 
at  the  warm,  low,  glittering  sea.  "There  isn't  a  particle  of 
worldliness  about  her,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  What  a  con 
trast  to  Margaret !" 

He  did  not  leave  the  perfumed  point  until  it  was  midnight 
and  high  tide. 


CHAPTER  X. 

LUCIAN  SPENSER'S  good  looks  were  of  the  kind  that  is  con 
spicuously  attractive  while  the  youth,  which  accompanies 
them,  lasts,  his  face  and  figure  being  a  personification  of  ra 
diant  young  manhood  at  its  best ;  the  same  features,  the  same 
height  and  bearing,  would  have  had  quite  a  different  aspect 
if  robbed  of  the  color,  the  sunniness — if  one  may  so  express 
it — which  was  now  the  most  striking  attribute  of  the  whole. 


EAST  ANGELS.  179 

He  was  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  but  slender  still,  he  had  a 
bearing  which  was  graceful  as  well  as  manly  ;  his  hair  of  a 
bright  golden  color  had  a  burnished  look,  which  came  from 
its  thick  mass  being  kept  so  short  that  the  light  could  find 
only  an  expanse  of  crisped  ends  to  shine  across.  His  eyes 
were  blue,  the  deep  blue  which  is  distinguishable  as  blue,  and 
not  gray  or  green,  across  a  room ;  this  clear  bright  color  was 
their  principal  beauty,  as  they  were  not  large.  They  were 
charming  eyes,  which  could  turn  to  tenderness  in  an  instant; 
but  though  they  could  be  tender,  their  usual  expression  was 
that  of  easy  indifference — an  expression  which,  when  accom 
panied  by  a  becoming  modesty  and  frankness,  sits  well  upon 
a  strong,  handsome  young  man.  He  had  a  well-cut  profile, 
white  teeth  gleaming  under  a  golden  mustache,  a  pleasant 
voice,  and  a  frequent,  equally  pleasant  laugh.  No  one  could 
resist  a  certain  amount  of  admiration  when  he  appeared;  and 
the  feeling  was  not  dimmed  by  anything  in  his  manner,  for 
he  was  good-humored  and  witty,  and  if,  as  has  been  said,  he 
was  rather  indifferent,  he  was  also  quite  without  egotism,  and 
quite  without,  too,  that  tendency  to  underrate  others  which 
many  excellent  persons  possess — a  tendency  which  comes  of- 
tenest  from  jealousy,  but  often,  too,  from  a  real  incapacity 
to  comprehend  that  people  may  be  agreeable,  and  happy,  and 
much  adraired,  and  even  good,  with  tastes  and  opinions,  ap 
pearance  and  habits,  which  differ  totally  from  their  own. 
Lucian  Spenser  underrated  nobody  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was 
apt  to  see  the  pleasant  side  of  the  people  with  whom  he  was 
thrown.  He  took  no  trouble  to  penetrate,  it  was  not  a  deep 
view ;  probably  it  was  a  superficial  one.  But  it  was  a  ques 
tion — so  some  of  his  friends  had  thought — whether  this  was 
not  better  than  the  strict  watch,  the  sadly  satisfactory  search 
for  faults  in  the  circle  of  their  own  families  and  acquaint 
ances,  which  many  conscientious  people  keep  up  all  their 
lives. 

A  day  or  two  after  his  midnight  musings  on  the  beach, 
Evert  Winthrop  was  coming  down  Paclicco  Lane  towards 
the  eyrie  when  he  heard,  in  a  long,  sweet,  distant  note, 
"  Good-by."  It  came  from  the  water.  But  at  first  he  could 
not  place  it ;  there  were  two  or  three  fishermen's  boats  pass 
ing,  but  the  fishermen  of  Gracias  were  not  in  the  habit  of 


180  EAST  ANGELS. 

calling  "good-by"  in  clear  English  accents  to  each  other; 
their  English  was  by  no  means  clear,  it  was  mixed  with  Span 
ish  and  West  Indian,  with  words  borrowed  from  the  not  re 
mote  African  of  the  Florida  negro,  and  even  with  some  from 
the  native  Indian  tongues ;  it  was  a  very  patchwork  of  lan 
guages.  Again  came  the  note,  and  Winthrop,  going  forward 
to  the  edge  of  the  low  bank,  looked  over  the  water.  The 
course  of  one  of  the  boats,  the  smallest,  had  brought  it  near 
er,  and  he  now  recognized  Lucian  Spenser  in  the  stern,  hold 
ing  the  sail-rope  and  steering,  and  Garda  Thome,  facing  him, 
seated  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Garda  waved  her  hand, 
and  called  again  "  Good-by."  They  glided  past  him,  and  lie 
raised  his  hat,  but  did  not  attempt  conversation  across  the 
water;  in  a  few  minutes  more  Lucian  had  tacked,  and  the 
boat  turned  eastward  down  the  harbor,  the  sail,  which  had 
swung  round,  now  hiding  their  figures  from  his  view.  Win 
throp  left  the  bank,  crossed  the  green-carpeted  lane,  and  went 
up  the  outside  stairway  to  the- eyrie's  drawing-room.  It 
was  inhabited  at  present  by  tea-leaves.  Celestine,  loathing, 
as  Minerva  Poindexter,  the  desultory  methods  of  Cindy,  the 
colored  girl  who  was  supposed  to  act  as  parlor-maid,  was  in 
the  habit  of  banishing  her  at  intervals  from  the  scene,  and 
engaging  personally  in  an  encounter  with  the  dust  according 
to  her  own  system.  The  system  of  Celestine  was  deep  and 
complicated,  beginning  with  the  pinning  of  a  towel  tightly 
over  her  entire  head  in  a  compact  cap-like  fashion  of  much 
austerity,  followed,  as  second  stage,  by  an  elaborate  arrange 
ment  of  tea-leaves  upon  the  carpet,  and  ending — but  no  one 
knew  where  it  ended,  no  one  had  ever  gone  far  enough.  It 
was  at  the  tea-leaf  stage  that  W7inthrop  found  her. 

"She's  gone  out  with  Mrs.  Carew,"  Celestine  replied,  in 
answer  to  his  inquiry  for  Mrs.  Rutherford.  "  You  see  she 
got  her  feet  all  sozzled  last  night  coming  home  across  the 
plazzer  from  church  with  that  there  Dr.  Kirby,  and  so  she 
took  cold,  of  course.  And  there's  nothin'  so  good  for  a  cold 
as  half  an  hour  outside  in  this  bakin'  sun,  and  so  I  told  her." 

"You  don't  speak  as  though  you  altogether  approved  of 
evening  service,  Minerva?"  Winthrop  answered,  amused  by 
her  emphasis. 

"  Well,  I  don't,  and  that's  a  fact,  Mr.  Evert.     In  the  morn- 


EAST  ANGELS.  181 

«V  it's  all  very  well ;  but  in  the  evening  I've  noticed,  the  mo 
tive's  apt  to  be  mixed,  it's  pretty  generally  who  you  come 
home  with.  My  mother  used  to  say  to  Lovina  (that  was  my 
sister)  and  me,  'Girls,  in  the  evenin's  I  don't  like  to  have  you 
go  loblolloping  down  to  meetin'  and  straddlin'  up  the  aisle. 
It  ain't  real  godliness;  it's  just  purtense,  and  everybody 
knows  it.'  And  she  was  quite  right,  Mr.  Evert  —  quite." 
And  having  thus  expressed  herself  at  much  greater  length 
than  was  usual  with  her,  Celestine  resumed  her  labors,  and 
raised  such  a  dust  that  the  man  (whom  she  still  considered 
quite  a  young  lad)  was  glad  to  beat  a  retreat. 

He  went  to  the  east  piazza,  and  seated  himself  with  a  book 
in  his  hand;  but  his  eyes  followed  the  sail  which  was  mov 
ing  slowly  down  the  harbor  towards  Patricio.  Fifteen  min 
utes  later  Margaret  Harold,  coming  through  the  long  win 
dow,  found  him  there.  By  this  time  the  sail  was  gone,  only 
the  bare  mast  could  be  seen  ;  Lucian  and  his  companion  had 
landed  on  Patricio. 

"  They  are  going  to  see  Madam  Ruiz,"  said  Margaret. 

"No,"  replied  Winthrop;  "if  they  had  been  going  there, 
they  would  have  stopped  this  side,  at  the  landing." 

"It  would  amuse  Garda  more  to  stop  on  the  ocean  side. 
It's  the  only  thing  she  plans  for — amusement." 

"I  can  see  no  especial  entertainment  in  it;  it  will  simply 
be  that  he  will  have  hard  work  to  get  the  boat  off." 

"Thaf  is  what  will  amuse  her — to  see  him  work  hard." 

"  He  won't  enjoy  it !" 

"But  she  will." 

"You  knew  they  were  going?"  said  Winthrop, taking  up 
his  book  again. 

"  I  was  passing  the  plaza  landing,  and  happened  to  see  them 
start." 

"Did  they  tell  you  they  were  going  to  see  Madam  Ruiz?" 

"They  were  too  far  off  to  speak  to  me,  they  were  just 
passing  the  end  of  the  pier.  No;  but  when  I  saw  they  had 
landed  (I  have  been  watching  them  from  my  window)  I  knew 
of  course  that  they  were  going  there." 

"There's  no  'of  course'  with  Lucian  Spenser!"  answered 
Winthrop.  He  got  up,  took  the  glass  which  was  hanging 
on  a  nail  behind  him,  and  turned  it  towards  the  point  of 


182  EAST  ANGELS. 

Patricio.  "They're  not  going  towards  the  Ruiz  plantation 
at  all,"  he  said ;  "  they're  walking  southward,  down  the 
beach."  He  put  the  glass  back  in  its  case,  closed  it,  replaced 
it  on  the  nail,  and  sat  down  again. 

"  I  am  surprised  that  Mrs.  Carew  should  have  allowed  Gar- 
da  to  go,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment.  "  She's  staying  with 
Mrs.  Carew,  isn't  she? — she's  always  staying  with  some  one 
now." 

"She  is  staying  with  Mrs.  Carew  till  to-morrow  only. 
Mrs.  Carew  likes  Lucian  Spenser  immensely,  she  tells  every 
one  how  much  she  likes  him." 

"I  don't  think  that  has  anything  to  do  with  it  —  Mrs. 
Carew's  admirations,"  responded  Winthrop.  "He's  an  irre 
sponsible  sort  of  fellow,"  he  added,  speaking  with  modera 
tion.  He  was  not  moderate,  but  he  often  spoke  with  mod 
eration.  On  the  present  occasion  he  felt  that  he  might  have 
said  much  more. 

"Yes,  I  think  he  is  rather  irresponsible,"  assented  Marga 
ret.  "  I  suppose  he  would  say  why  shouldn't  he  be,  if  it 
pleases  him." 

"  No  reason  in  the  world,  I  don't  imagine  any  one  cares. 
But  they  ought  not  to  permit  Edgarda  Thorne  to  go  about 
with  him  as  she  does ;  she  has  never  been  in  the  habit  of 
walking  or  sailing  with  Manuel  Ruiz,  or  that  young  Cuban 
— I  mean  walking  or  sailing  with  them  alone." 

"  Probably  they  have  never  asked  her." 

"  That  is  very  likely,  I  suppose  they  wouldn't  dream  of  it. 
And  that  is  what  I  am  referring  to ;  she  has  been  brought 
up  here  under  such  a  curious  mixture  of  freedom  and  strict 
ness  that  she  is  not  at  all  fitted  to  understand  a  person  like 
Spenser." 

"  Shall  I  speak  to  Mrs.  Thorne  ?"  said  Margaret.  She  was 
standing  by  the  piazza's  parapet,  her  hand  resting  on  its  top, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  Patricio,  though  the  two  figures  were  no 
longer  in  sight.  Winthrop's  chair  being  behind  her  and  on 
one  side,  he  could  see  only  her  profile,  outlined  against  the 
light. 

"  Mrs.  Thorne  is  already  awakened  to  it,"  he  answered ; 
"  she  has  spoken  to  me  on  the  subject." 

"  There  was  your  opportunity.     What  did  you  say  ?" 


EAST  ANGELS.  183 

"I  told  her— I  told  her  not  to  be  uneasy/'  he  replied, 
breaking  into  a  laugh  over  his  own  inconsistencies.  'But  it 
isn't  Mrs.  Thorne  who  is  to  blame— I  mean  Mrs.  Thome 
alone;  it  is  Mrs.  Carew,  the  Kirbys,  the  Moorcs,  and  all  the 
rest  of  them." 

"  In  other  words,  the  whole  society  of  Gracias.  Dp  you 
think  we  ought  to  corrupt  them  with  our  worldly  cautions?" 
"  We're  not  corrupting,  it's  Spenser  who's  corrupting  ;  we 
should  never  corrupt  them  though  we  should  stay  here  for 
ever.  They're  idyllic,  of  course,  it's  an  idyllic  society  ;  but 
we  can  be  idyllic  too." 

Margaret  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  afraid  we  can  only  be 
appreciative." 

"  It's  the  same  thing.  If  we  can  appreciate  little  Gracias, 
with  its  remoteness  and  simplicity  and  stateliness,  its  pine 
barrens  and  beaches  and  roses,  I  maintain  that  we're  very 
idyllic  ;  what  can  be  more  so  ?" 

Margaret  did  not  reply.  After  a  while  she  said,  "  If  you 
will  take  Aunt  Katrina  to  drive  to-morrow  afternoon,  I  will 
have  Telano  row  me  down  to  East  Angels." 

"You  think  you  will  speak  in  any  case?     I  suppose  you 
know  with  what  enthusiastic  approval  Mrs.  Thorne  honors 
all  you  say  and  do?" 
"  Yes,  something  of  it." 

"  But  you  don't  care  for  her  approvals,"  he  said,  half  in 
terrogatively. 

"  Yes,  I  care,"  Margaret  answered.  "  In  this  case  I  care 
a  great  deal,  as  it  may  give  me  some  influence  over  her." 

*"  What  shall  you  say  to  her  ?— not  that  I  have  any  right 
to  ask." 

"I  am  very  willing  to  tell.  I  had  thought  of  asking 
whether  she  would  let  Garda  go  back  with  me  when  we  go 
home— back  to  New  York  ;  Hiad  thought  of  having  her  go 
to  school  there  for  six  months." 

"  I  can't  imagine  her  in  a  school !  But  it's  very  kind  in 
you  to  think  of  it,  all  the  same." 

"  She  could  stay  with  Madame  Martel,  and  take  lessons ; 
it  wouldn't  be  quite  like  a  school." 

"  That  might  do.  Still— I  can  hardly  imagine  her  away 
from  Gracias,  when  it  comes  to  the  point." 


184  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Neither  can  I.  But,  as  you  say,  irresponsible  people 
have  made  their  way  in  here,  they  will  do  so  again  ;  we  shall 
not  be  able  to  keep  the  place,  and  Garda,  idyllic  simply  to 
please  ourselves." 

"  Well,  then,  I  wish  we  could !"  responded  Winthrop. 
"  But  I  don't  believe  the  little  mother  could  stand  the  sepa 
ration,"  he  went  on. 

"  I  shouldn't  ask  her  to,  at  least  not  for  long ;  I  should  ask 
her  to  come  herself,  later.  New  York  might  amuse  her." 

"  Never  in  the  world,  she  wouldn't  in  the  least  approve  of 
it,"  said  Winthrop,  laughing.  "  It  wouldn't  be  Thome  and 
Duero ;  it  wouldn't  even  be  New  Bristol,  where  she  spent 
her  youth.  She  would  feel  that  she  ought  to  reform  it,  yet 
she  wouldn't  know  how  ;  she  would  be  dreadfully  perplexed. 
She  has  a  genius  for  perplexity,  poor  little  soul.  But  I  can't 
express  how  good  I  think  it  is  of  you  to  be  willing  to  give 
them  such  a  delightful  change  as  that,"  he  went  on — "to 
take  a  whole  family  on  your  shoulders  for  six  long  months." 

"  A  family  of  two.     And  it  would  be  a  pleasure." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  that  people  don't  often  do  such 
things,  except  for  their  relatives.  Not  very  often  for  them." 

"  I  know  it  perfectly ;  I  have  always  wondered  why  they 
did  not — provided,  of  course,  that  they  had  the  ability,"  an 
swered  Margaret. 

Winthrop  in  his  heart  had  been  much  astonished  by  her 
plan.  He  looked  at  her  as  if  in  search  of  some  expression 
that  should  throw  a  gleam  of  light  upon  her  motives.  But 
she  had  not  moved,  and  he  could  still  see  only  her  profile. 
After  a  while  she  lifted  her  eyes,  which  had  been  resting 
with  abstracted  gaze  upon  the  water,  and,  for  the  first  time, 
turned  them  towards  him.  A  faint  smile  crossed  her  face 
as  she  met  his  inquiring  look,  but  her  expression  under  the 
smile  seemed  to  him  sad ;  she  bent  her  head  slightly  with 
out  speaking,  as  if  to  say  good-by,  and  then  she  went  back 
through  the  long  window  into  the  house.  Winthrop,  left 
behind,  said  to  himself  that  while  he  had  no  desire  as  a  gen 
eral  thing  for  long  conversations  with  Margaret  Harold,  he 
wished  this  time  that  she  had  not  gone  away  so  soon.  Then 
it  came  to  him  that  she  almost  always  went  away,  that  it 
was  almost  always  she  who  rose,  and  on  some  pretext  or 


EAST  ANGELS.  185 

other  left  him  to  himself;  she  left  him — he  did  not  leave 
her;  on  this  occasion  she  had  gone  without  the  pretext; 
she  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  invent  one,  she  had  sim 
ply  walked  off.  Of  course  she  was  quite  free  to  come  and 
go  as  she  pleased.  But  he  should  have  liked  to  hear  more 
about  her  plan  for  Garda. 

The  next  day  she  did  not  go  down  to  East  Angels.  Her 
proposed  visit  had  had  to  do  with  Lucian  Spenser,  and  Lu- 
cian  Spenser  had  taken  his  departure  from  Gracias  that 
morning — a  final  departure,  as  it  was  understood ;  at  least 
he  had  no  present  intention  of  returning.  Jt  was  very  sud 
den.  He  had  had  time  to  say  good-by  only  to  his  cousin, 
Mr,  Moore.  To  Mr.  Moore  he  had  intrusted  a  little  note  of 
farewell  for  Edgarda  Thome,  who  had  returned  to  East  An 
gels  at  an  earlier  hour,  without  seeing  Lncian  or  knowing 
his  intention.  Mr.  Moore  said  that  Lucian  had  not  known 
his  intention  himself  until  that  morning;  he  had  received  a 
letter,  which  was  probably  the  cause  of  his  departure  (this 
"probably"  was  very  characteristic  of  the  clergyman).  He, 
Lucian,  intended  to  go  directly  north  to  Washington,  and 
from  there  to  New  York;  and  then,  possibly,  abroad. 

"Dear  me! — and  his  surveying  camp,  and  the  swamp, 
and  those  interesting  young  bears  he  had  there  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  who,  having  once  arranged  this  very  handsome 
young  man's  background  definitely  in  her  mind,  was  loath 
to  change  it,  "  even,"  as  she  remarked,  with  an  unusual 
flight  of  imagination, — "even  for  the  White  House  !" 

"  It  would  hardly  be  the  Executive  Mansion  in  any  case,  I 
fancy,"  explained  Mr.  Moore,  mildly,  "Lucian  has,  I  think, 
no  acquaintance  with  the  President.  But  Washington  is  in 
reality  his  home ;  though  it  is  perhaps  apparent  that  he  has 
not  been  there  very  often  of  late  years." 

These  rather  vague  deductions  regarding  his  young  cous 
in's  movements  were  satisfactory  to  Middleton  Moore  ;  he 
had  evidently  asked  no  more  questions  of  Lucian  on  the  oc 
casion  of  his  unexpected  departure  than  he  had  upon  the 
occasion  of  his  equally  unexpected  arrival ;  his  interest  in 
him  (which  was  great)  had  no  connection  with  the  interro 
gation  point. 

"What  shall  you  do  now?"  said  Winthrop  to  Margaret, 


186  EAST  ANGELS. 

after  the  clergyman  had  taken  leave.  They  were  alone  in  the 
little  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Rutherford  having  gone  to  put  her 
self  in  the  hands  of  Celestine  for  the  elaborate  change  of 
dress  required  before  her  daily  drive. 

Margaret  had  risen ;  but  she  stopped  long  enough  to  an 
swer:  "Of  course  now  I  need  not  speak 'to  Mrs.  Thome 
about  Mr.  Spenser." 

"No.  But  about  Garda's  going  north?  Do  you  still 
think  of  that?" 

"Yes;  that  is,  I  should  like  very  much  to  take  her.  But 
I  don't  think  I  shall  speak  of  it  immediately,  there  need  be 
no  hurry  now."  She  paused.  "  I  should  like  first  to  talk  it 
over  more  clearly  with  you,"  she  said,  as  if  with  an  effort. 

"  Whenever  you  please ;  I  am  always  at  your  service,"  re 
plied  Winthrop,  with  a  return  of  his  formal  manner. 

That  afternoon  he  rode  down  to  East  Angels.  Mrs.  Thome 
received  him ;  there  was  excitement  visible  in  her  face  and 
manner — an  excitement  which  she  held  in  careful  control ; 
but  it  manifested  itself,  in  spite  of  the  control,  in  the  in 
creased  brightness  of  her  eyes,  which  now  fairly  shone,  in 
the  round  spot  of  red  on  each  little  cheek-bone,  and  in  the 
more  accentuated  distinctness  of  her  speech,  which  now  came 
as  nearly  as  possible  to  a  pronunciation  of  every  letter.  She 
asked  him  how  he  was;  she  inquired  after  the  health  of  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  after  the  health  of  Mrs.  Harold;  she  even  in 
cluded  Celestine.  She  spoke  of  her  own  health,  and  at  some 
length.  She  then  branched  off  upon  the  weather.  All  her 
T's  were  so  preternaturally  acute  that  they  snapped  like  a 
drop  of  rain  falling  into  a  fire ;  when  she  said  "  we "  or 
"  week,"  she  brought  out  the  vowel-sound  so  distinctly  that 
her  thin  lips  widened  themselves  flatly  over  her  small  teeth, 
and  her  mouth  became  the  centre  of  a  sharp  triangle  whose 
apex  was  the  base  of  the  nose,  and  the  sides  two  deep  lines 
that  extended  outward  diagonally  to  the  edge  of  the  jaws. 
So  far,  she  was  displaying  unusual  formality  \vith  the  friend 
she  had  found  so  satisfying.  The  friend  betrayed  no  con 
sciousness  of  any  change,  he  saw  that  she  wished  to  keep 
the  direction  of  the  conversation  in  her  own  hands,  and  he 
did  not  interfere  with  her  desire ;  he  was  sure  that  she  had 
something  to  say,  and  that  in  her  own  good  time  she  would 


EAST  ANGELS.  187 

bring  it  forth.  And  she  did.  After  treating  him  to  twenty 
minutes  of  pronunciations,  she  folded  her  hands  closely  and 
with  the  same  crisp  utterance  remarked:  "My  daughter  is 
in  the  rose  garden,  I  should  like  to  have  you  see  her  before 
you  go.  I  shall  not  accompany  yon,  I  shall  ask  you  to  do 
me  the  favor  of  seeing  her  alone." 

He  could  not  help  smiling  a  little,  in  spite  of  the  repressed 
tragedy  of  the  tone.  "Favor?"  he  repeated. 

"  Yes,  favor,"  responded  Mrs.  Thome,  in  a  slightly  higher 
key,  though  her  voice  remained  musical,  as  it  always  was. 
"  Favor,  indeed  !  Wait  till  you  see  her.  Listen,  Mr.  Win- 
throp ;  I  want  you  to  be  very  gentle  with  Edgarda  now." 
And,  leaning  forward,  she  touched  his  arm  impressively  with 
her  finger. 

Winthrop  always  felt  an  immense  pity  for  this  little  moth 
er,  she  was  racked  by  so  many  anxieties  of  which  the  ordi 
nary  world  knew  nothing,  the  comfortable  world  of  Mrs. 
Rutherford  and  Mrs.  Carew ;  that  these  anxieties  were  exag 
gerated,  did  not  vender  them  any  the  less  painful  to  the 
woman  who  could  not  perceive  that  they  were. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  be  gentle,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand 
cordially.  As  he  held  it  he  could  feel  the  hard  places  on  the 
palm  which  much  household  toil,  never  neglected,  though 
never  mentioned,  had  made  there. 

"But  when  you  see  her,  when  you  hear  her  talk,  it  may 
not  be  so  easy,"  responded  Mrs.  Thome,  looking  at  him  with 
an  expression  in  her  eyes  which  struck  him  as  containing  at 
the  same  time  both  entreaty  and  defiance. 

"It  will  always  be  easy,  I  think,  for  me  to  be  gentle  with 
Garda,"  responded  Winthrop ;  and  his  own  tone  was  gentle 
enough  as  he  said  it. 

Tears  rose  in  Mrs.  Thome's  eyes ;  but  she  repressed  them, 
they  did  not  fall.  "  I  depend  greatly  upon  you,"  she  said, 
with  more  directness  than  she  had  yet  used.  She  drew  her 
hand  from  his,  took  up  his  hat,  which  was  lying  on  a  chair 
near  her,  and  gave  it  to  him  ;  she  seemed  to  wish  him  to  go, 
to  say  no  more. 

lie  obeyed  her  wish,  he  left  the  house  and  went  to  the 
rose  garden.  Here,  after  looking  about  for  a  moment,  he 
saw  Garda. 


188  EAST  ANGELS. 


CHAPTER  XL 

SHE  was  under  the  great  rose-tree.  Dressed  in  an  old 
white  gown  of  a  thick  cotton  material,  she  was  sitting  on  the 
ground,  with  her  crossed  arms  resting  on  the  bench,  and  her 
head  laid  on  her  arms;  her  straw  hat  was  off,  the  rose-tree 
shading  her  from  the  afternoon  sun.  Carlos  Mateo,  mount 
ing  guard  near,  eyed  Winthrop  sliarply  as  he  approached. 
But  though  Garda  of  course  heard  his  steps,  she  did  not 
move ;  he  came  up  and  stood  beside  her,  still  she  did  not 
raise  her  head.  He  could  see  her  face  in  profile,  as  it  lay 
on  her  arm  ;  it  was  pale,  the  long  lashes  were  wet  with  tears. 

"  Garda,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  know  who  it  is,"  she  answered  without  looking 
up  ; — "  it  is  Mr.  Winthrop.  Mamma  has  asked  you  to  come 
and  talk  to  me,  I  suppose;  but  it  is  of  no  use."  And  he 
could  see  the  tears  drop  down  again,  one  by  one. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  come  on  my  own  account,  without 
being  asked,  if  I  could  be  of  any  use  to  you,  Garda." 

"You  cannot,"  she  murmured,  hopelessly. 

His  speech  had  sounded  in  his  own  ears  far  too  formal 
and  cold  for  this  grieving  child — for  the  girl  looked  not 
more  than  fourteen  as  she  sat  there  with  her  bowed  head  on 
her  arms.  He  resisted,  however,  the  impulse  to  treat  her  as 
though  she  had  been  indeed  a  child,  to  stoop  down  and  try 
to  comfort  her. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  find  you  so  unhappy,"  he  went  on, 
still  feeling  that  his  words  were  too  perfunctory. 

"I  don't  believe  it;  I  wish  I  did,"  answered  Garda,  who 
was  never  perfunctory,  but  always  natural.  "  If  I  did,  per 
haps  I  could  talk  to  you  about  it,  and  then  it  wouldn't  be 
quite  so  hard." 

"Talk  to  me  whether  you  believe  it  or  not,"  suggested 
Winthrop. 

"I  cannot;  you  never  liked  him." 

A  frown  showed  itself  on  Winthrop's  face;  but  Garda 


EAST  ANGELS.  189 

could  not  see  it,  and  he  took  good  care  that  his  voice  should 
not  betray  irritation  as  he  answered:  "But  as  I  like  yon, 
won't  that  do  as  well?  You  ought  to  feel  safe  enough  with 
me  to  say  anything." 

"Oh,  why  won't  you  be  good  to  me?"  said  the  girl,  in  a 
weeping  tone,  abandoning  the  argument.  "  I  shall  die  if  ev 
erybody  is  so  cruel  when  I  am  suffering  so." 

"  I  am  not  cruel,"  said  Winthrop.  He  had  seated  himself 
on  the  bench  near  her,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  for  a 
moment  on  her  bright  brown  hair. 

The  touch  seemed  very  grateful  to  Garda ;  instantly  she 
moved  towards  him,  put  her  arms  on  his  knee,  and  laid  her 
head  down  again,  in  much  the  same  attitude  she  often  as 
sumed  when  with  Margaret  Harold,  save  that  she  did  not 
look  up ;  her  eyes  remained  downcast,  the  lashes  heavy  with 
tears.  "  I  cannot  bear  it — he  has  gone  away,"  she  said,  let 
ting  her  sorrow  come  forth.  "I  liked  him  so  much — so 
much  better  than  I  liked  any  one  else.  And  now  he  has 
gone,  and  I  am  left !  And  there  was  no  preparation — it  was 
so  sudden !  Only  yesterday  we  had  that  beautiful  walk  on 
Patricio  beach  (don't  you  remember? — I  called  to  you  as  we 
passed),  and  he  said  nothing  about  going.  I  can  never  tell 
you  how  long  and  dreadful  the  time  has  been  since  I  got  his 
note  this  morning." 

"Don't  try,"  said  Winthrop.  "Think  of  other  things. 
Some  of  us  are  left,  make  the  best  of  us ;  we  are  all  very 
fond  of  you,  Garda."  He  felt  a  great  wrath  against  Lucian 
Spenser;  but  he  could  not  show  any  indication  of  it  lest  he 
should  lose  the  confidence  she  was  reposing  in  him,  the  con 
fidence  which  made  her  come  and  lay  her  crossed  arms  on 
his  knee  and  tell  him  all  her  grief.  This  confidence  had 
other  restrictive  aspects,  it  showed  that  she  regarded  him  as 
a  species  (somewhat  younger,  perhaps)  of  Mr.  Moore  or  Dr. 
Kirby ;  Winthrop  was  acutely  conscious  that  he  could  not 
play  that  part  in  the  least;  it  certainly  behooved  him,  there 
fore,  to  do  the  best  he  could  with  his  own. 

"Yes,  you  are  all  kind,  I  know,"  Garda  had  answered. 
u  But  Lucian  was  different,  Lucian  amused  me  so." 

"Amused?  Was  that  it?"  said  Winthrop,  surprised  by 
the  word  she  had  chosen. 


190  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Garda,  in  the  same  dejected  tone. 
"  Is  there  anything  better  than  to  be  amused  ?  I  ain  sure  I 
don't  know  anything.  I  was  so  dull  here,  and  he  made  ev 
erything  delightful ;  but  now — "  Her  tears  rose  again  as 
the  contrast  came  over  her. 

"  Perhaps,  now  that  you  have  called  our  attention  to  it, 
the  rest  of  us  might  contrive  to  be  more  amusing,"  said 
Winthrop,  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  his  tone. 

But  Garda  did  not  notice  the  sarcasm.  "  No,"  she  an 
swered,  seriously,  "  you  could  not.  You  might  try ;  but  no, 
you  could  not,"  she  repeated,  with  conviction.  "  For  it 
wasn't  anything  lie  did,  it  was  Lucian  himself.  Besides,  I 
liked  so  much  to  look  at  him — he  was  so  beautiful.  Don't 
you  remember  the  dimple  that  came  when  he  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed  ?"  She  moved  a  little  so  that  she 
could  rest  her  chin  on  her  clasped  hands,  and  look  up  into 
Winthrop's  face ;  her  eyes  met  his  dreamily ;  she  saw  him, 
but  she  was  thinking  of  Spenser. 

"  Torres  has  a  dimple  too,"  answered  Winthrop,  rather 
desperately.  For  between  the  beauty  of  the  girl  herself, 
made  more  appealing  as  it  was  now  by  her  sorrow,  her  con 
fiding  trust  that  he  was  prepared  to  play  on  demand  the  part 
of  grandfather  or  uncle — between  this  and  her  extraordinary, 
frank  dwelling  upon  the  attractive  points  of  Lucian  Spenser, 
together  with  the  wrath  he  felt  against  that  accomplished 
young  engineer — he  was  not,  perhaps,  so  fully  in  possession 
of  his  accustomed  calmness  as  usual.  But  she  was  a  child, 
of  course;  he  always  came  back  to  that;  she  was  nothing 
but  a  child. 

It  was  true  that  poor  Torres  had  a  dimple,  as  Winthrop 
had  said.  It  was  in  his  lean  dark  cheek,  and  everybody  was 
astonished  to  see  it  there;  once  there,  everybody  wondered 
where  it  found  space  to  play.  It  did  not  find  it  in  depth, 
and  had  to  spread  itself  laterally;  it  was  a  very  thin  dimple 
on  a  bone. 

But  Garda  paid  no  attention  to  this  attempt  at  a  diversion. 
"Did  you  ever  see  such  eyes  as  Lucian's,  such  a  deep,  deep 
blue?"  she  demanded  of  Winthrop's  gray  ones. 

"  Very  blue,"  he  answered.  He  was  succeeding  in  keep 
ing  all  expression  out  of  his  fr.cc  (if  there  had  been  any,  it 


EAST   ANGELS.  191 

would  not  have  been  of  the  pleasantest).  He  felt,  however, 
that  his  tone  was  dry. 

But  acquiescence  was  enough  for  Garda,  she  did  not  no 
tice  his  tone ;  she  continued  the  expression  of  her  recollec 
tions.  "  When  the  light  shone  across  his  hair — don't  you 
remember  the  color?  It  was  like  real  gold.  He  looked 
then  like — like  a  sun-god,"  she  concluded,  bringing  out  the 
word  with  ardor. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  sun-gods  ?"  said  Winthrop,  en 
deavoring  to  bear  himself  agreeably  in  these  intimate  confi 
dences.  • "  How  many  of  the  warm-complexioned  gentlemen 
have  you  known  ?" 

"  I  mean  the  Kirbys'  picture,"  answered  Garda,  with  much 
definiteness,  rejecting  sun-gods  in  general  as  a  topic,  as  she 
had  the  dimple  of  poor  Torres;  "you  must  remember  the 
one  I  mean." 

Winthrop  did  remember;  it  was  a  copy  of  the  Phoebus 
Apollo  of  Guide's  "  Aurora  "  at  Rome. 

"Oh,"  continued  Garda,  without  waiting  for  reply,  "  what 
a  comfort  it  is  to  talk  to  you !  Mamma  has  been  so  strange, 
she  has  looked  at  me  as  though  I  were  saying  something 
very  wrong.  I  have  only  told  her  how  much  I  admired  him 
— just  as  I  have  been  telling  you  ;  is  that  wrong?" 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  answered  Winthrop,  who 
had  at  last  decided  upon  the  course  he  should  pursue.  "  But 
it  won't  last  long,  you  know,  it's  only  a  fancy ;  you  have 
seen  so  few  people,  shut  up  in  this  one  little  place.  When 
you  have  been  about  more,  your  taste  will  change." 

Garda  did  not  pay  much  heed  to  these  generalities  arrayed 
before  her,  nor  did  he  expect  that  she  would.  But  this  was 
the  tone  he  intended  to  take ;  later  she  would  recall  it.  All 
she  said  now  was,  "  Oh,  please  stay  ever  so  long,  all  the  even 
ing;  I  cannot  let  you  go,  now  that  you  are  so  good  to  me." 
And  taking  his  hand  with  a  caressing  little  motion,  she  laid 
her  soft  cheek  against  it. 

"  Suppose  we  walk  a  while,"  suggested  Winthrop,  rising. 
He  said  to  himself  that  perhaps  he  should  feel  less  like  a 
grandfather  if  he  were  on  his  feet ;  perhaps,  too,  she  would 
treat  him  less  like  one. 

Garda  obeyed  him  directly.    She  was  as  docile  as  possible. 


192  EAST  ANGELS. 

When  they  were  a  dozen  yards  off,  Carlos  Matco  began  to 
follow  them  slowly,  taking  very  high  steps  with  his  thin 
legs,  and  pausing  carefully  before  each  one,  with  his  upheld 
claw  in  the  air,  as  if  considering  the  exact  point  in  the  sand 
where  he  should  place  it  next.  They  went  to  the  live-oak 
avenue.  "How  long  do  you  think  it  will  hurt  me  so,  hurt 
me  as  it  does  now — his  going  away  ?"  the  girl  asked,  sadly. 

"  Not  long,"  replied  Winthrop,  in  a  matter-of-course  tone. 
"It's  always  so  when  we  are  parted  from  our  friends;  per 
haps  you  have  never  been  parted  from  a  friend  before  2" 

"  That  is  true,  I  have  not,"  she  answered,  a  little  consoled. 
"  But  no,"  she  went  on,  in  a  changed  voice,  "  it's  not  like 
that,  it's  not  like  other  friends ;  I  cared  so  much  for  him ! 
You  might  all  go  away,  every  one  of  you,  and  I  shouldn't 
care  as  I  do  now."  And  with  all  her  figure  drooping,  as 
though  it  had  been  struck  by  a  blighting  wind,  she  put°her 
hand  over  her  eyes  again. 

"Take  my  arm,"  said  Winthrop;  "we  will  go  down  to 
the  landing,  where  you  can  rest  on  the  bench ;  you  are  tired 
out,  poor  child." 

Again  she  obeyed  him  without  opposition,  and  they  walked 
on  ;  but  her  breath  came  in  long  sobs,  and  she  kept  her  little 
hand  over  her  eyes,  trusting  to  his  arm  to  guide  her.  He 
felt  that  it  was  better  that  she  should  talk  of  Spenser  than 
sob  in  that  way,  and,  bracing  himself  with  patience,  he  be 
gan. 

"  How  was  it  that  he  entertained  you  so  ?  what  did  he 
do?"  he  asked.  There  was  no  inderiniteness  about  that 
"  he ; "  there  was  only  one  "  he  "  for  Garda. 

She  took  the  bait  immediately.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  He 
always  made  me  laugh."  Then  her  face  brightened  as  rec 
ollection  woke.  "  He  was  always  saying  things  that  I  had 
never  thought  of — not  like  the  things  that  other  people  say," 
she  went  on  ;  "and  he  said  them,  too,  in  a  way  that  always 
pleased  me  so  much.  Generally  he  surprised  me,  and  I  like 
to  be  surprised." 

"  Yes,  I  see ;  it  was  the  novelty." 

"  No,"  answered  Garda,  with  a  reasonable  air,  "  it  couldn't 
have  been  the  novelty  alone,  because,  don't  you  see,  there 
were  you.  You  were  novel — nothing  could  have  been  more 


EAST  ANGELS.  193 

so ;  and  yet  you  never  began  to  give  me  any  such  amuse 
ment  as  Lucian  did." 

Evert  Winthrop  remarked  to  himself  that  a  girl  had  to 
be  very  pretty,  very  pretty  indeed,  before  a  man  could  en 
joy  such  comparisons  as  these  from  her  lips.  But  Garda 
Thome's  beauty  was  enchanting,  sometimes  he  had  thought 
it  irresistibly  so ;  to  be  wandering  with  this  exquisite  young 
creature  on  his  arm,  in  this  soft  air,  on  this  far  southern 
shore — yes — one  could  put  up  with  a  good  deal  for  that. 

They  reached  the  landing ;  she  seated  herself  on  the  bench 
that  stood  at  the  bank's  edge,  under  the  last  oak,  and  folded 
her  hands  passively.  A  little  dilapidated  platform  of  logs, 
covered  with  planks,  ran  out  a  few  yards  into  the  water ;  the 
old  boat  of  the  Thornes  lay  moored  at  its  end.  Winthrop 
took  a  seat  on  the  bench  also.  "  Tell  me,  Garda,"  he  said, 
"  have  you  ever  thought  of  going  north  ?" 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  to-day.  But  there's  no  use,  we  can 
not  go." 

"Don't  you  remember  that  you  wanted  to  see  snow,  and 
the  great  winter  storms  ?" 

"Did  I?"  said  Garda,  vaguely.  "I  should  like  to  go  to 
Washington,"  she  added,  with  more  animation.  "But  what 
is  the  use  of  talking  about  it?  We  cannot  go."  And  she 
relapsed  again.  "  We  cannot  ever  go  anywhere,  unless  we 
should  be  able  to  sell  the  place,  and  we  shall  never  be  able  to 
sell  it,  because  nobody  wants  it ;  nobody  could  want  it." 

"  It's  a  pleasant  old  place,"  remarked  Winthrop. 

A  sudden  light  came  into  Garda's  eyes.  "Mr.  Winthrop," 
she  said,  eagerly,  "  I  had  forgotten  your  odd  tastes ;  perhaps 
you  really  do  like  East  Angels?  I  remember  I  thought  so 
once,  or  rather  mamma  did  ;  mamma  thought  you  might  buy 
it.  I  told  her  I  did  not  want  you  to  feel  that  it  was  urged 
upon  you  ;  but  everything  is  different  to  me  now,  and  I  wish 
you  would  buy  it.  I  suppose  that  you  are  so  rich  that  it 
wouldn't  matter  to  you,  and  it  would  make  us  so  happy." 

"Us?" 

"Oh  yes,  to  sell  it  has  long  been  mamma's  hope.  I  won't 
say  her  only  one,  because  mamma  has  so  many  hopes;  but 
this  has  been  the  principal  one,  the  one  upon  which  every 
thing  else  hung.  So  few  people  come  to  Gracias — people  oi 

12 


194  EAST  ANGELS. 

our  position,  I  mean  (for  of  course  we  wouldn't  sell  it  to  any 
one  else) — that  it  has  seemed  impossible ;  there  have  been 
only  you  and  Lucian,  and  Lucian,  you  know,  has  no  money  at 
all.  But  you  have  a  great  deal,  they  all  say,  and  I  almost 
think  you  really  do  like  the  place,  you  look  about  you  so 
when  you  come." 

"  I  like  it  grcatlv  ;  better  than  any  other  place  I  have  seen 
here." 

"  He  likes  it  greatly ;  better  than  any  other  place  lie  has 
seen  here,"  repeated  Garda,  in  a  delighted  tone.  She  rose 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  low  bank,  clapping  her 
hands  softly,  and  smiling  to  herself.  Then,  laughing,  she 
came  back  to  him,  her  pretty  teeth  shining  beneath  her  part 
ed  lips.  "You  are  the  kindest  man  in  the  whole  world," 
she  announced,  standing  before  him.  Winthrop  laughed  also 
to  see  how  suddenly  happy  and  light-hearted  she  had  become. 
"Let  us  go  and  tell  mamma,"  continued  Garda.  "Poor 
mamma — I  haven't  been  nice  to  her.  But  now  I  will  be; 
I  shall  tell  her  that  you  will  buy  the  place,  there's  nothing 
nicer  than  that.  Then  we  can  go  to  Washington." 

"  It  will  take  some  time,  you  know,"  Winthrop  suggested. 

Her  face  fell.     "  Much  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  hardly  know ;  probably  a  good  deal  could  be  done  in 
the  course  of  the  summer.  There  may  be  difficulty  about 
getting  a  clear  title ;  complications  about  taxes,  tax  claims, 
or  the  old  Spanish  grants."  He  thought  it  was  as  well  she 
should  comprehend,  in  the  beginning,  that  there  would  be  no 
going  to  Washington,  for  the  present  at  least. 

"But  in  our  case  there  can  be  no  complications,  we  are 
the  old  Spaniards  ourselves,"  said  Garda,  confidently. 

He  was  silent. 

"  It  would  be  very  hard  to  have  to  wait  long,"  she  went 
on,  dejected  by  his  manner. 

"  Yes.     But  it's  something  to  have  it  sold,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Of  course  it  is,  it's  everything,"  she  responded,  taking- 
heart  again.  "  And  even  if  it  is  long,  I  am  young,  I  can 
wait ;  Lucian  is  young  too ;  and — I  don't  think  he  will  for 
get  me,  do  you  ?" 

"I  want  to  advise  one  thing — that  you  should  not  talk  so 
constantly  about  Spenser,"  suggested  Winthrop. 


EAST  ANGELS.  195 

"  Not  talk  about  him  ?  It's  all  I  care  for."  She  drew  her 
arm  from  his,  and  moved  away.  Stopping  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  she  gazed  back  at  him  with  a  frown. 

"  I  know  it  is,"  answered  Winthrop,  admiring  the  beauty 
of  her  face  in  anger.  "  My  suggestion  is  that  you  talk  about 
him  only  to  me." 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  see  you  very  often,"  she  answered, 
breaking  into  smiles,  and  coming  to  take  his  arm  again  of 
her  own  accord.  They  went  back  through  the  avenue  tow 
ards  the  house. 

They  found  Mrs.  Thome  in  the  drawing-room.  She  ap 
peared  to  have  dressed  herself  afresh  from  head  to  foot, 
her  little  black  gown  was  exquisitely  neat,  her  hair  under  her 
widow's  cap  was  very  smooth ;  she  had  a  volume  of  Emer 
son  in  her  hand.  She  looked  guardedly  at  Winthrop  and 
her  daughter  as  they  came  into  the  room ;  her  face  was 
steady  and  composed,  she  was  ready  for  anything. 

Garda  kissed  her,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
with  one  arm  round  her  small  waist,  giving  her  a  little  hug 
to  emphasize  her  words. 

"Oh,  mamma,  think  of  it!  Mr.  Winthrop  wants  to  buy 
the  place." 

Mrs.  Thome  turned  her  eyes  towards  Winthrop.  They 
still  had  a  guarded  expression,  her  face  remained  carefully 
grave. 

"  I  have  long  admired  the  place,  Mrs.  Thorne,"  he  began, 
in  answer  to  her  glance.  "  I  have  thought  for  some  time 
that  if  you  should'ever  feel  willing  to  sell  it — 

"  Willing  ?     Delighted  !"  interpolated  Garda. 

" — I  should  be  very  glad  to  become  the  purchaser,"  ho 
concluded ;  while  Garda  laughed  from  pure  gladness  at  hear 
ing  the  statement  repeated  in  clear,  business-like  phrase. 

'Mrs.  Thorne  gave  her  little  cough,  and  sat  looking  at  the 
floor.  "  It  would  be  a  great  sacrifice,"  she  answered  at  last. 
"There  would  be  so  many  old  associations  broken,  so  many 
precious  traditions  given  up — " 

"Traditions?"  repeated  Garda,  in  her  sweet,  astonished 
voice.  "But,  mamma,  we  cannot  live  forever  upon  tradi 
tions." 

"  We  have  done  so,  or  nearly  so,  for  some  time,  and  not 


196  EAST  ANGELS. 

without  happiness,  I  think,"  replied  Mrs.  Thome,  with  digni 
ty.  "Take  one  thing-  alone,  Edgarda,  one  thing  that  we 
should  have  to  relinquish  —  the  family  burying-ground ;  it 
has  been  maintained  here  unbroken  for  over  two  hundred 
years." 

"  Mamma,  Mr.  Winthrop  would  leave  us  that." 

"Even  if  he  should,  there's  not  room  for  a  house  there 
that  I  am  aware  of,"  replied  Mrs.  Thorne,  funereally. 

Winthrop  with  difficulty  refrained  from  a  laugh.  But  he 
did  refrain.  He  saw  that  the  relief  of  having  her  daughter 
returned  to  her,  freed  from  the  incomprehensible  grief  that 
had  swept  over  her  so  strangely,  this,  combined  with  the  sud 
denly  expanding  prospect  of  a  fulfilment  of  her  long -cher 
ished  dream  of  selling  the  place,  had  so  filled  her  constantly 
anxious  mind  with  busy  plans,  pressing  upon  each  other's 
heels,  that  beyond  them  she  had  only  room  for  a  general 
feeling  that  she  must  not  appear  too  eager,  that  she  must,  as 
a  Thorne,  say  something  that  should  seem  like  an  objection 
— though  in  reality  it  would  not  be  one. 

But  if  Winthrop  refrained  from  a  laugh,  Garda  did  not. 
"Oh,  mamma,  how  funny  you  are  to-day  !"  she  said,  embrac 
ing  her  again  with  a  merry  peal. 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  am  funny,"  replied  Mrs.  Thorne, 
with  solemnity. 

"  Why,  yes,  you  are,  mamma.  Do  we  want  to  live  in  the 
burying-ground?"  said  Garda,  with  another  peal. 

But  Mrs.  Thorne  preserved  her  composed  air.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  that  indeed  might  be  her  wish. 

Winthrop  took  leave  soon  afterwards,  in  spite  of  Garda's 
entreaty  that  he  should  stay  longer.  He  had  administered 
a  good  deal  of  comfort,  it  may  have  been,  too,  that  he  had 
come  to  the  end  of  his  capacity  to  hear  more,  that  day  at 
least,  about  Lucian  Spenser.  He  had  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  old  stairway,  and  gone  some  distance  down  the  stone- 
flagged  corridor  towards  the  door,  when  he  heard  Garda's 
voice  again  : 

"  Mr.  Winthrop  2"  He  looked  up.  She  had  come  half 
way  down  the  stairs,  and  was  standing  with  one  hand  on  the 
carved  balustrade,  her  white  figure  outlined  against  the  high 
dark  panelling  of  the  other  side.  "I  shall  never  be  able  to 


EAST  ANGELS.  197 

keep  silence  as  you  wish,  unless  I  see  you  very  soon  again,'' 
she  said. 

He  smiled,  without  making  answer  in  words,  for  Raquel 
had  now  appeared,  coming  from  her  own  domain  to  open 
the  lower  door.  Raquel  always  paid  this  attention,  though 
no  one  asked  her  to  do  it.  Mrs.  Thome,  indeed,  disapprov 
ing  of  it  and  her,  never  rang  to  let  her  know  that  her  guests 
we're  departing.  This  made  no  difference  to  Raquel,  or  ra 
ther  it  gave  her  the  greater  insistence ;  when  guests  were  in 
the  house  she  now  made  a  point  of  giving  up  all  work  while 
they  remained,  in  order  to  be  in  readiness  for  this  parting 
ceremonial.  Raquel  had  a  high  regard  for  ceremonials;  she 
had  been  brought  up  by  the  Old  Madam. 

Winthrop  carried  out  his  project.  Asking  the  good  of 
fices  of  Dr.  Kirby  as  appraiser,  he  took  the  first  steps  towards 
the  purchase  of  East  Angels.  It  soon  became  apparent  that 
the  steps  would  be  many.  The  Dueros  having  been,  as 
Garcia  had  said,  "  the  old  Spaniards  "  themselves,  there  was 
no  trouble  in  this  case  about  the  Spanish  grants ;  theirs  was 
a  bona  Jide  one.  But  there  were  other  intricacies,  and  in 
studying  them  Winthrop  learned  the  history  of  the  place  al 
most  back  to  the  landing  of  Ponce  de  Leon.  The  lands  had 
been  granted  in  the  beginning  by  the  crown  of  Spain  (of 
course  over  the  heads  of  the  unimportant  natives)  to  Admiral 
Juan  de  Duero  in  1585.  They  had  been  regranted  (over 
the  hoards  of  the  Dueros),  seventy  years  later,  by  the  crown 
of  England,  to  an  English  nobleman,  who,  without  taking- 
possession,  had  sold  his  grant,  and  comfortably  enjoyed  the 
profits;  the  buyer  meanwhile  had  crossed  the  ocean  only  to 
lose  his  life  by" shipwreck  off  the  low  Florida  coast,  and  his 
descendants  had,  it  appeared,  sent  an  intermittent  cry  across 
from  England  that  they  should  assuredly  come  over,  and  take 
possession.  They  never  did,  however ;  and  the  Dueros  of 
course  considered  their  claim  as  merely  so  much  unimportant 
insanity.  Later,  at  the  beginning  of  the  British  occupation 
in  1763,  the  Dueros  themselves  had  transferred  part  of  their 
domain  to  other  owners.  Then,  upon  the  return  of  the 
Spaniards,  twenty  years  afterwards,  they  had  calmly  taken 
possession  of  the  property  again,  without  going  through  the 
form  of  asking  permission,  the  new  owners  meanwhile  hav- 


198  EAST  ANGELS. 

ing  gone  north,  to  cast  their  fortunes  with  the  raw  young 
republic  called  the  United  States;  the  descendants  of  these 
new  owners  had  also  at  intervals  sent  up  a  cry,  which  echoed 
through  the  title  rather  more  clearly  than  the  earlier  one 
from  England.  The  place  had  been  three  times  pillaged  by 
buccaneers,  who  at  one  period  were  fond  of  picnic-parties  on 
Florida  shores ;  it  had  been  through  several  attacks  by  In 
dians,  in  one  of  which  the  stone  sugar-mill  had  been  de 
stroyed.  Since  the  long  warm  peninsula  had  come  into  the 
possession  of  the  United  States  these  same  lands  had  suffered 
several  partitions  (on  paper)  from  forced  sales  (also  on  pa 
per),  owing  to  unpaid  taxes,  the  confusion  having  been  much 
increased  by  the  late  war.  Tax  claims  in  large  numbers 
lifted  their  heads,  like  a  crop  of  quick-growing  malodorous 
weeds,  at  the  first  intimation  that  a  bona  fide  purchaser  had 
appeared,  a  man  from  the  North  who  had  the  eccentricity  of 
wishing,  in  the  first  place,  for  such  a  worn-out  piece  of  prop 
erty  as  East  Angels,  and,  in  the  second,  for  a  clear  title  to 
it ;  this  last  seemed  an  eccentricity  indeed,  when  the  Dueros 
themselves  had  lived  there  so  long  without  one.  Evert  Win- 
throp  persevered ;  lie  persevered  with  patience,  for  he  was 
amused  by  the  local  history  his  researches  unearthed.  Dr. 
Kirby  persevered  also,  but  he  persevered  with  impatience ; 
he  was  especially  incensed  against  the  attorney  who  repre 
sented  a  portion  of  the  later  tax  titles.  This  attorney,  a 
new-comer  in  Gracias,  was  a  tall,  narrow-chested  young  man 
from  Maine,  who  had  hoped  to  obtain  health  and  a  mod 
est  livelihood  in  the  little  southern  town  ;  it  was  plain 
that  he  would  obtain  neither,  if  long  opposed  to  Reginald 
Kirby. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  who  had  been  especially  exasper 
ated  by  a  tax  title  which  stood  in  the  name  of  a  certain  In 
crease  Kittredge,  described  as  a  resident,  "there  is  collusion 
in  this  evidently.  There  is  no  such  person  in  Gracias-a-Dios, 
and  I  venture  to  say  there  is  no  such  person  in  the  State ;  it 
is  some  northern  freebooter  who  is  acting  through  you.  Kit 
tredge,"  he  repeated,  putting  on  his  spectacles  to  read  the 
name  again.  "And  Increase!"  he  added,  throwing  back  his 
head  and  looking  about  the  room,  as  if  calling  the  very  fur 
niture  to  witness.  "No  southerner,  high  or  low,  sir,  had 


EAST  ANGELS.  199 

ever  such  a  name  as  thai  since  the  universe  was  created ;  it's 
Yankee,  Yankee  to  the  core,  as — if  you  will  kindly  allow  me 
to  mention  it — is  your  own  also." 

The  youthful  attorney,  whose  name  was  Jeremiah  Boise, 
sat  looking  at  his  pen-holder  with  a  discouraged  air;  he  was 
very  young,  and  he  admired  the  Doctor  profoundly,  which 
made  it  worse. 

"  And  I  am  surprised,"  continued  the  Doctor,  changing 
his  tone  to  one  of  simple  gravity,  "  that  you  should  be  will 
ing  to  lend  yourself  to  these  plots  and  jobs  "  (the  Doctor 
brought  out  these  two  words  with  rich  round  utterance), 
"  which  must,  of  course,  act  more  or  less  upon  the  nerves, 
you  who  are  so  far  from  robust,  who  have  so  evidently  a 
tendency"  —  here  the  Doctor  paused,  surveying  Jeremiah 
from  head  to  foot — "  a  tendency  to  weakness  of  the  breath 
ing  powers." 

The  poor  young  man,  who  knew  that  he  had,  looked  so 
pallid,  nevertheless,  under  this  professional  statement  of  his 
case  that  the  kind-hearted  Doctor  instantly  repented.  He 
put  out  his  hand,  "There,  there,"  he  said;  "don't  look  so 
disheartened.  Come  to  my  office  and  let  me  see  you,  I  vent 
ure  to  say  I  can  set  you  up  in  no  time — in  no  time  at  all. 
I  presume  you  haven't  the  least  idea  how  to  take  care  of 
yourself,  it's  extraordinary  how  people  go  about  the  world 
one  mass  of  imprudence.  Have  the  kindness  to  stand  up 
for  a  moment.  Now  draw  a  long  breath.  Hum — hum — I 
thought  so ;  no  absolute  harm  done  as  yet."  And  the  Doc 
tor  tapped  and  listened,  and  tapped  and  listened  again,  with 
as  much  interest  as  though  the  "suspected  chest  had  belonged 
to  a  southern  Kirby  instead  of  to  a  Jeremiah  from  Maine. 
"  That  will  do ;  thank  you.  You  must  come  and  see  me 
this  very  afternoon  ;  come  about  five.  I  shall  give  you  some 
rules  to  follow.  One  of  the  first  will  be  that  you  live  more 
generously,  enjoy  yourself  more  (you  northerners  don't  seem 
to  know  how).  Never  fear,  man;  we'll  build  you  up  in  a 
few  months  so  that  you  won't  know  yourself  !"  And  cor 
dially  shaking  his  hand,  the  Doctor  took  leave — only  to  come 
back  and  remark,  standing  upon  the  threshold,  with  a  full 
return  of  his  majestic  manner,  "But  I  should  advise  you,  sir 
— I  should  most  seriously  advise  you  to  relinquish  all  con- 


200  EAST  ANGELS. 

nection  with  the  scandalous  claims  masquerading  under  that 
faudulent  name — that  name  of  Increase  Kittrcdge  !" 

He  departed,  and  returned  again  briskly,  to  say  in  his 
pleasantest  voice :  "  Oh,  by-the-way,  I'm  going  to  send  you 
some  sound  wine  —  port;  I  have  a  little  left.  Be  good 
enough  to  take  it  according  to  the  directions."  And  this 
time  he  was  really  gone. 

In  the  mean  while  all  Gracias  congratulated  Mrs.  Thornc. 
That  lady  bore  herself  with  much  propriety  under  the  altered 
aspect  of  her  affairs.  There  were  advantages  in  it,  she  said 
with  a  sigh,  which  of  course  she  appreciated ;  still,  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  think  without  sadness  of  "  the  severing 
of  old  associations"  which  such  a  change  must  bring  about. 
Gracias  agreed  with  her  there — the  severing  would  be  diffi 
cult;  old  associations,  indeed,  had  always  been  Gracias's 
strong  point.  Still,  a  good  deal  of  breakage  could  be  borne 
— it  was,  indeed,  a  duty  to  bear  it — when  such  an  equivalent 
was  to  be  rendered  ("equivalent"  was  the  term  they  had  de 
cided  upon).  The  equivalent — that  is,  the  sum  which  Win- 
throp  was  to  pay  for  the  plantation — was  not  large.  But  to 
Gracias  in  its  reduced  state  it  seemed  an  ample  fortune ; 
Gracias  wondered  what  Mrs.  Thome  would  do  with  it.  That 
lady  kept  her  own  counsel ;  but  in  private  she  covered  sheets 
of  paper  with  her  small  careful  figures,  and  pondered  over 
them. 

To  Garda  the  hoped-for  sum  represented  but  one  word — 
Washington !  Winthrop  had  again  dwelt  upon  the  advice 
that  she  should  not  speak  that  word  too  audibly.  "So  long 
as  I  can  whisper  it  to  you,  I  can  be  dumb  to  the  others,"  she 
answered,  laughing. 

But  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that  she  whispered. 

The  conditions  of  their  friendship  at  present  were  remark 
able.  Garda  was  restless  unless  she  could  see  him  every  day ; 
if  he  came  on  horseback,  she  had  espied  him  from  afar,  and 
was  at  the  edge  of  the  barren  to  meet  him  ;  if  he  sailed  down 
the  lagoon  in  the  Emperadora,  she  had  recognized  the  sail, 
and  was  in  waiting  on  the  landing.  Once  there,  she  wished 
to  have  him  all  to  herself,  she  grudged  every  moment  he 
spent  with  her  mother.  This  did  not  prevent  him  from 
spending  a  good  many  with  the  little  mistress  of  East  An- 


EAST  ANGELS.  201 

gels,  who  now  received  him  with  a  subdued  resignation  which 
was  his  delight.  This  was  the  man  who  was  about  to  dis 
possess  them  of  their  home,  the  home  of  her  daughter's  fore 
fathers;  he  meant  no  harm,  he  wished  for  the  place,  sad 
misfortune  compelled  them  to  part  with  it;  but  naturally, 
naturally,  they  could  not  quite  welcome  him  with  undiluted 
feelings ;  naturally  their  feelings  were,  must  be,  charged  with 
— retrospect.  All  this,  especially  the  retrospect,  was  so  re 
luctantly  yet  perfectly  expressed  in  her  voice  and  manner 
that 'Winthrop  was  never  tired  of  admiring  it,  and  her;  she 
was  practising  the  tone  she  intended  to  take  about  him  ;  he 
could  not  deny  that  it  was  a  very  perfect  little  minor  note. 
Oarda's  feelings,  however,  did  not  seem  to  be  diluted  with 
anything;  she  received  him  with  unmixed  joy.  As  soon  as 
she  could  get  him  to  herself  she  carried  him  off  to  the  live- 
oak  avenue,  whose  high  arches  and  still  gray  shade  had  now 
become  her  favorite  resort;  here  she  strolled  up  and  down 
with  him  and  talked  of  Lucian,  being  contented  with  his 
mere  presence  as  reply.  Often  Carlos  Mateo  stalked  up  and 
down  behind  them ;  for  he  lived  in  the  live-oak  avenue  now, 
Garda  declared  that  he  danced  by  himself  there  on  moon 
light  nights.  Sometimes  Adolfo  Torres  performed  similar 
sentinel  duty.  For  Garda  had  become  almost  tender  in  her 
manner  to  the  young  Cuban  since  her  own  interest  in  Lucian 
had  developed  itself.  "  He  feels  as  I  do,"  she  said  to  Win 
throp,  with  conviction. 

"  Never  mind  his  feeling.  What  is  yours  for  him  ?"  sug 
gested  Winthrop,  who  was  perhaps  rather  tired  of  the  senti 
nels,  bird  and  man. 

"  Pity,"  answered  Garda,  promptly.     "  A  nice,  kind  pity." 
"He  must  be  a  poor  stick  to  keep  coining  here  for  that." 
"Oh,  he  doesn't  think  it's  pity,  he  would  never  compre 
hend  that,  though  you  should  tell  him  a  dozen  times.     He's 
satisfied;  Adolfo  is  always  satisfied,  I  think." 

"  Couldn't  he  enjoy  his  satisfaction  at  home,  then  ? — it 
doesn't  seem  to  depend  at  all  upon  your  talking  to  him?" 

"  I  talk  to  him  when  you  are  not  here.  You  cannot  always 
be  here,  you  know,  but  he  almost  can,  he  lives  so  near.  Lucian 
was  always  going  to  sec  him — don't  you  remember  ?  He  said 
he  was  like  a  mediaeval  finger-post;  you  must  remember  that." 


202  EAST  ANGELS. 

Winthrop  felt  that  he  was  sometimes  required  to  remem 
ber  a  good  deal. 

He  did  not,  however,  have  to  remember  Manuel,  at  least  at 
present;  Lucian  not  having  discovered  mediaeval  qualities  in 
that  handsome  youth,  Garcia  was  content  to  let  him  remain 
where  he  was;  this  was  the  San  Juan  plantation,  twenty  miles 
away.  He  had  been  there  some  time.  His  mother  said  he 
was  hunting. 

"  Yes,  there  are  a  number  of  pretty  girls  about  there,"  re 
marked  Dr.  Kirby. 

But  Torres,  who  was  jealous  of  no  one,  and  whose  patience 
and  courteous  certainty  remained  unmoved,  continued  to  ac 
company  Garda  and  Winthrop  in  their  strolls  up  and  down 
the  live-oak  avenue.  He  generally  walked  a  little  behind 
them  ;  that  gave  him  his  sentinel  air.  Several  yards  behind 
him  came  Carlos  Mateo;  but  Carlos  affected  not  to  belong 
to  the  party,  he  affected  to  be  taking  a  stroll  for  his  own 
amusement,  like  any  other  gentleman'of  leisure;  he  looked 
about  him,  and  often  stopped ;  he  appeared  to  be  admiring 
the  beauties  of  nature. 

And  Garda  talked  on,  never  rapidly,  her  topic  ever  the 
same.  Torres,  of  course,  understood  nothing  of  her  mono 
logues.  And  Winthrop  ?  Winthrop  suffered  them. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OF  his  reasons  for  pursuing  this  course,  Margaret  Harold 
knew  more  than  any  one  else.  For  as  Garda's  devotion  to 
Margaret  remained  unchanged,  she  talked  to  her  as  freely  as 
she  talked  to  Winthrop.  She  saw  Winthrop  oftener;  but 
whenever  she  could  pay  a  visit  to  Margaret,  or  whenever  Mar 
garet  came  down  to  East  Angels,  Garda's  delight  was  to  sit 
at  her  feet  and  talk  of  Lucian.  The  girl,  indeed,  had  made 
an  express  stipulation  with  Winthrop  that  Margaret  should 
be  excepted  from  his  decree  of  silence.  "  I  must  talk  to  Mar 
garet,"  she  said,  "  because  I  am  so  fond  of  her.  The  reason 
I  like  to  talk  to  you  is  because  you  are  a  man,  and  therefore 
you  can  appreciate  Lucian  better." 


EAST  ANGELS.  203 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  just  the  other  way,"  observed 
Winthrop. 

"  Oh  no ;  Margaret  doesn't  even  sec  how  beautiful  he  is, 
much  less  talk  about  it." 

"And  I  like  to  talk  about  it  so  much  !" 

"You  do  it  to  please  me,"  said  Garda,  gratefully.  " I  ap 
preciate  that." 

"  She  tells  me  she  talks  to  you — I  mean,  of  course,  about 
Lucian  Spenser — just  as  she  does  to  me,"  he  said  to  Margaret 
one  day ;  "  she  has  chosen  to  confide  her  little  secrets  to  you 
and  me  alone."  Margaret  was  standing  by  a  table  in  the 
eyrie's  dining-room,  arranging  in  two  brown  jugs  a  mass  of 
yellow  jessamine  which  she  had  brought  in  from  the  barrens. 
"  Rather  a  strange  choice,"  he  went  on,  smiling  a  little  as  he 
thought  of  himself,  and  then  of  Margaret,  reserved,  taciturn, 
gentle  enough,  but  (so  he  had  always  felt)  cold  and  unsym 
pathetic. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Margaret.  "  What  do  you  think  the  best 
way  to  receive  it  ?"  she  added,  going  on  with  her  combina 
tions  of  green  and  gold. 

"Not  to  bluff  her  off — to  let  her  talk  on.  It  is  only  a 
fancy,  of  course,  a  girl's  fancy ;  but  it  needs  an  outlet,  and 
we  are  a  safe  one,  because  we  know  how  to  take  it — know 
what  it  amounts  to." 

"  What  does  it  amount  to  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"Oh,"  murmured  the  woman  at  the  table,  rather  protcst- 
ingly. 

"  I  mean  that  it  will  end  in  nothing,  it  will  soon  fade. 
But  it  shows  that  the  child  has  imagination  ;  Garda  Thorne 
will  love,  some  of  these  days ;  a  real  love." 

"  Yes ;  that  requires  imagination." 

"My  sentences  were  not  connected,  they  did  not  describe 
each  other.  What  I  meant  was  that  the  way  the  child  has 
gone  into  this — this  little  beginning — shows  that  she  will  be 
capable  of  deep  feelings  later  on." 

Margaret  did  not  reply. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  excellent  women  who  are  quite  in 
capable  of  them,"  pursued  Winthrop,  conscious  that  he  had, 
as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  taken  the  bit  in  his  teeth  again, 


204  EAST  ANGELS. 

but  led  on  by  tlie  temptation  which,  more  and  more  this  win 
ter,  Margaret's  controlled  silences  (they  always  seemed  con 
trolled)  were  becoming  to  him.  "And  the  curious  point  is 
that  they  never  suspect  their  own  deficiencies ;  they  think 
that  if  they  bestow  a  prim,  well-regulated  little  affection  upon 
the  man  they  honor  with  their  choice,  that  is  all  that  is  nec 
essary  ;  certainly  it  is  all  that  the  man  deserves.  I  don't  know 
what  we  deserve ;  but  I  do  know  that  we  are  not  apt  to  be 
much  moved  by  such  affection  as  that.  They  are  often  very 
good  mothers,"  he  added,  following  here  another  of  his  ten 
dencies,  the  desire  to  be  just — a  tendency  which  often  brought 
him  out  at  the  end  of  a  remark  where  people  least  expected. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  important  ?"  said  Margaret. 

"Very.  Only  let  them  not,  in  addition,  pretend  to  be 
what  they  are  not." 

"  I  don't  think  they  do  pretend." 

"  You're  right,  they're  too  self-complacent.  They're  quite 
satisfied  with  themselves  as  they  are." 

"  If  they  are  satisfied,  they  are  very  much  to  be  envied," 
began  Margaret. 

"  She's  going  to  defend  herself,"  thought  Winthrop.  "  It's 
a  wonder  she  hasn't  done  so  before ;  to  save  my  life,  I  don't 
seem  to  be  able  to  resist  attacking  her." 

But  Margaret  did  not  go  on.  She  took  up  the  last  sprays 
and  looked  at  them.  "Then  you  think  I  had  better  let  her 
talk  on,  without  checking  her,"  she  said,  returning  to  the 
original  topic  between  them.  "You  think  I  had  better  not 
try  to  guide  her?" 

"Refused  again!"  thought  Winthrop.  "Guide  her  to 
what  ?"  he  said,  aloud. 

"  Not  to  anything.     Away — away  from  Lucian  Spenser." 

"Then  you'don't  like  him?"  he  said,  questioning!/. 

"  lie  is  very  handsome,"  answered  Margaret,  smiling. 

"  But  that  isn't  what  we're  discussing,  that  isn't  advice." 

"  Let  her  talk  as  she  pleases — that  is  my  advice ;  let  her 
string  out  all  her  adjectives.  My  idea  is  that,  let  alone,  it 
will  soon  exhale;  opposition  would  force  it  into  an  impor 
tance  which  it  does  not  in  reality  possess.  Arc  you  going  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  finished.  But  I  shall  remember  what  you 
sav."  And  she  left  the  room,  carrying  the  flowers  with  her. 


EAST  ANGELS.  205 

Mrs.  Thornc  came  up  to  Gracias,  and  called  upon  Mrs. 
Rutherford  at  the  eyrie.  Her  visits  there  had  always  been 
frequent,  but  this  one  had  the  air  of  a  visit  of  ceremony ; 
it  seemed  intended  as  a  formal  expression  of  her  chastened 
acquiescence  in  the  northern  gentleman's  projects  concerning 
East  Angels. 

"I  have  reserved  the  memories," she  said,  with  expression. 

"Yes,  indeed;  fond  Memory  brings  to  light,  and  so  it  will 
be  with  you,  Mistress  Throne,"  said  Betty,  who  was  spending 
the  afternoon  with  her  Katrina;  "you  can  always  fall  back 
on  that,  you  know." 

"  Have  you  reserved  old  Pablo  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford.  "He  is  a  good  deal  of  a  memory,  isn't  he?" 

"I  have  reserved  Pablo,  and  also  Raquel ;  they  will  travel 
with  us,"  replied  Mrs.  Thome.  "  Raquel  will  act  as  my  maid, 
Pablo  as  my  man-servant." 

"They're  very  southern,"  remarked  Betty,  shaking  her 
head.  "  I  doubt  whether  they  would  get  on  well,  living  at 
the  North.  Raquel,  you  know,  has  no  system  ;  she  would  as 
soon  leave  her  work  at  any  time  and  run  and  make  a  hen 
coop — that  is,  if  you  should  happen  to  have  hens,  and  I  am 
sure  I  hope  you  would,  because  at  the  North,  they  tell  me — " 

But  here  Mrs.  Thorne  bore  down  upon  her.  "And  did 
you  suppose,  Betty — were  you  capable  of  supposing — that 
Edgarda  and  I  were  thinking  of  living  at  the  North  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'm  capable  of,"  answered  Betty, 
laughing  good-hurnoredly ;  "  Mr.  Carew  never  knew  either. 
But  you're  really  a  northerner  after  all,  Mrs.  Thorne  ;  and  so 
it  didn't  seem  so  unlikely." 

Mrs.  Thorne  had  called  her  Betty,  but  she  did  not  address 
Mrs.  Thorne  as  Melissa  in  return.  No  one  had  called  Mrs. 
Thorne  Melissa  (Melissa  Whiting  had  been  the  name  of  her 
maiden  days)  since  she  had  entered  the  manorial  family  to 
which  she  now  belonged.  Her  husband  had  called  her  "  Blue- 
eyes"  (he  had  admired  her  very  much,  principally  because  she 
was  so  small  and  fair) ;  the  Old  Madam  had  unfailingly  desig 
nated  her  by  the  Spanish  equivalent  for  "  madam  my  niece- 
in-law,"  which  was  very  imposing — in  the  Old  Madam's  tone. 
To  every  one  else  she  was  Mistress  Thorne,  and  nothing  less 
than  Mistress  Thorne ;  the  title  seemed  to  belong  to  every 


206  EAST  ANGELS. 

inch  of  her  straight  little  back,  to  be  visible  even  in  the  ar 
rangement  of  her  bonnet-strings. 

Madam  my  niece-in-law  now  addressed  herself  to  answer 
ing  Betty.  "When  I  married  my  dear  Edgar,  Betty,  I  be 
came  a  Thome,  I  think  I  may  say,  without  affectation,  a 
thorough  one ;  no  other  course  was  open  to  me,  upon  enter 
ing  a  family  of  such  distinction  ;  Edgarda,  therefore  is  Thome 
and  Ducro,  she  is  nothing  else.  Gracias-a-Dios  will  continue 
to  be  our  home,  we  could  not  permanently  establish  ourselves 
anywhere,  I  think,  save  on  the — the  strand,  where  her  fore 
fathers  have  lived,  and  died,  with  so  much  eminence  and  dis 
tinction." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  answered  Bet 
ty,  cordially.  "  WTe  are  all  so  fond  of  Garda  that  we  should 
miss  her  dreadfully  if  she  were  to  be  away  long,  though  of 
course  we  can't  expect  to  monopolize  her  so  completely  as 
we  have  done  ;  she'll  be  going  before  lon£,  you  know,  to  that 
bourne  from  which — " 

"  Oh,  Betty,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Rutherford,  throwing  up 
her  white  hands,  "  what  horrors  you  do  say  !" 

"  I  didn't  mean  it,"  exclaimed  Betty,  in  great  distress,  the 
tears  rising  in  her  honest  eyes ;  "  I  didn't  mean  anything  of 
the  sort,  dear  Mistress  Thorne,  I  beg  you  to  believe  it ;  I 
meant  *  She  stood  at  the  altar,  with  flowers  on  her  brow  ' — 
indeed  I  did."  And  much  overcome  by  her  own  inadver 
tence,  Betty  produced  her  handkerchief. 

"  Never  mind,  Betty  ;  /  always  understand  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Thorne,  graciously. 

But  it  soon  became  evident  that  though  she  might  under 
stand  Betty  she  did  not  understand  Melissa,  at  least  not  so 
fully  as  she  supposed  she  did,  for,  not  long  after  her  visit  at 
the  eyrie,  she  fell  ill.  On  the  fifth  day  it  was  feared  that 
her  illness  had  taken  a  dangerous  turn ;  the  delicate  little 
cough  with  which  they  had  been  acquainted  so  long,  in  the 
various  uses  she  put  it  to,  that  they  had  almost  come  to  con 
sider  it  a  graceful  accomplishment,  this  cough  had  all  the 
time  had  its  own  character  under  the  assumed  ones,  and  its 
own  character  was  simply  an  indication  of  a  bronchial  affec 
tion,  which  had  now  assumed  a  serious  phase,  sending  inflam 
mation  down  to  the  lungs. 


EAST  ANGELS.  207 

"  Her  lun^s  have  never  been  good,"  said  Dr.  Kirby  to  Win- 
throp  ;  the  Doctor  was  much  affected  by  the  danger  of  his 
poor  little  friend.  "  She  has  never  had  any  chest  to  speak 
of,  none  at  all."  And  the  Doctor  tapped  his  own  wrath- 
fully,  and  brought  out  a  sounding  expletive,  the  only  one 
"Winthrop  had  ever  heard  him  use;- he  applied  it  to  Ncw- 
Englanders,  New-Englanders  in  general. 

The  Doctor  want  back  to  East  Angels.  And  in  the  late 
afternoon  Winthrop  himself  rode  down  there.  The  little 
mistress  of  the  house  was  yery  ill ;  besides  Garda,  the  Doc 
tor,  his  mother,  and  Mrs.  Carcw  were  in  attendance.  He  saw 
only  Mrs.  Carew.  She  told  him  that  Mrs.  Thorne  was  very 
much  disturbed  mentally,  as  well  as  very  ill,  that  she  seemed 
unable  to  allow  Garda  out  of  her  sight;  when  she  did  not 
sec  her  at  the  bedside,  she  kept  calling  for  her  in  her  weak 
voice  in  a  way  that  was  most  distressing  to  hear;  Garda 
therefore  now  remained  in  the  room  day  and  night,  save  for 
the  few  moments,  now  and  then,  when  her  mother  fell  into 
a  troubled  sleep.  The  Doctor  was  very  anxious.  They  were 
all  very  anxious. 

Winthrop  rode  back  to  Gracias,  he  went  to  the  eyrie. 
Mrs.  Rutherford  was  out,  she  was  taking  a  short  stroll  with 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore.  Margaret  was  on  the  east  piazza ;  she 
was  bending  her  head  over  some  fine  knitting. 

"  I'll  wait  for  Aunt  Katrina,"  said  Winthrop,  taking  a 
chair  near  her.  "Knitting  for  the  poor,  I  suppose.  Do  you 
know,  I  always  suspect  ladies  who  knit  for  the  poor ;  I  sus 
pect  that  they  knit  for  themselves — the  occupation." 

"  So  they  do,  generally.  But  this  isn't  for  the  poor ;  don't 
you  see  that  it's  silk?" 

"You  could  sell  it.     In  the  Charity  Basket." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  Charity  Baskets  ?"  said  Margaret, 
laughing.  "  But  I'm  afraid  I  am  not  very  good  at  working 
for  the  poor;  the  only  thing  I  ever  made — made  with  my 
own  hands,  I  mean  —  was  a  shirt  for  that  eminent  Sioux 
chieftain  Spotted  Tail,  and  he  said  it  did  not  fit." 

"  They  don't  wTant  shirts,  they  want  their  land,"  said  Win 
throp.  "  We  should  have  made  them  take  care  of  them 
selves  long  ago,  but  we  shouldn't  have  stolen  their  land.  I'm 
not  thinking  of  Lo,  however,  at  present,  I  am  thinking  of 


208  EAST  ANGELS. 

that  poor  little  woman  down  at  East  Angels.  I  am  afraid 
she  is  very  ill.  Do  yon  know,  I  cannot  help  suspecting  thnt 
the  sudden  change  in  her  prospects  has  had  something^to  do 
with  her  illness;  I  mean  the  unexpected  vision  of  what  seems 
to  her  prosperity.  •  She  has  kept  up  unflinchingly  through 
years  of  struggle,  and  I  think  she  could  have  kept  up  almost 
indefinitely  in  the  same  way,  for  Garda's  sake,  if  she  had  had 
the  same  things  to  encounter;  but  this  sudden  wealth  (for, 
absurd  as  it  is,  so  it  seems  to  her)  has  changed  everything 
so,  has  buried  her  so  almost  over  her  head  in  plans,  that  the 
excitement  has  broken  her  down.  You  probably  think  me 
very  fanciful,"  he  concluded,  realizing  that  he  was  speaking 
almost  confidentially. 

"Not  fanciful  at  all  ;  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  answered 
Margaret,  her  head  still  bent  over  her  knitting. 

"  She  has  asked  for  you  a  number  of  times,  Mrs.  Carcw 
tells  me,"  lie  said,  after  a  moment  or  two  of  silence. 

"  Has  she  ?"  said  Margaret,  this  time  raising  her  eyes.  "  I 
should  have  gone  down  to  East  Angels  before  this  if  I  had 
not  feared  that  I  should  be  only  in  the  way  ;  all  their  friends 
have  been  there,  I  know ;  it  is  a  very  united  little  society." 

"Yes,  Madam  Ruiz  and  Madam  Giron  were  there  yester 
day  taking  care  of  her ;  Mrs.  Kirby  and  Mrs.  Carcw  are  there 
to-day.  Everything  possible  is  being  done,  of  course.  Still 
— I  don't  know  ;  from  something  Mrs.  Carew  said,  I  fear  the 
poor  woman  is  suffering  mentally  as  well  as  physically;  she 
is  constantly  asking  for  Garda,  cannot  bear  her  out  of  her 
sight." 

"  If  I  thought  I  could  be  of  any  service,"  said  Margaret. 

"  I  am  sure  you  could  ;  the  greatest,"  he  responded  prompt 
ly,  his  voice  betraying  relief.  "  Mrs.  Thome  is  an  odd  little 
woman  ;  but  she  has  a  very  genuine  liking  for  you ;  I  think 
she  feels  more  at  home  with  you,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
than  she  does  with  any  of  these  Gracias  friends,  long  as  she 
has  known  them.  And  as  for  Garda,  I  am  sure  you  could  do 
more  for  her  than  any  other  person  here  could — later,  I  mean 
— she  is  so  fond  of  you."  He  paused ;  what  he  had  said 
seemed  to  come  back  to  him.  "Both  of  them,  mother  and 
daughter,  appear  to  have  selected  you  as  their  ideal  of  good 
ness,"  he  went  on  ;  "  I  hope  you  appreciate  the  compliment." 


EAST  ANGELS.  209 

This  time  the  slight,  very  slight  indication  of  sarcasm  showed 
itself  again  in  his  tone. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  yon  think  the  poor  mother  really  in 
danger?"  said  Margaret,  paying  no  heed,  apparently,  to  his 
last  remark. 

"  She  has  evidently  grown  very  weak,  and  I  have  never 
thought  she  had  any  strength  to  spare.  But  it  is  only  my 
own 'idea,  I  ought  to  tell  yon,  that  she  is — that  she  may  not 
recover." 

"  I  will  go  as  soon  as  possible ;  early  to-morrow  morning," 
said  Margaret.  "  But  if  I  do—  She  hesitated.  "  I  am 
afraid  Aunt  Katrina  will  be  lone — I  mean  I  fear  she  might 
feel  deserted  if  left  alone." 

"Alone  —  with  Minerva  and  Telano  and  Cindy,  and  the 
mysterious  factotum  called  Maum  Jube?" 

"  There  would  still  be  no  companion,  no  one  for  her  to 
talk  to." 

"  How  you  underrate  the  conversation  of  Cclestine !  I 
should,  of  course,  come  in  often." 

"  I  think  that  if  you  should  stay  in  the  house,  while  I  am 
gone,  it  would  be  better,"  answered  Margaret. 

"  To  try  and  make  up,  in  some  small  degree,  for  what  she 
loses  when  she  loses  you  ?" 

"Whatever  you  please,  so  long  as  you  come,"  she  re 
sponded. 

The  next  morning  she  went  down  to  East  Angels.  Garda 
received  her  joyously.  "Oh,  Margaret,  mamma  is  better, 
really  better." 

It  was  true.  The  fever  had  subsided,  the  symptoms  of 
pneumonia  had  passed  away  ;  the  patient  was  very  weak,  but 
Dr.  Kirby  was  now  hopeful.  lie  had  taken  his  mother  back 
to  Gracias,  but  the  kind-hearted  Betty  remained,  sending  by 
the  Kirbys  a  hundred  messages  of  regret  to  her  dearest  Ka 
trina  that  their  separation  must  still  continue. 

Later  in  the  day  Margaret  paid  her  first  visit  to  the  sick 
room.  Mrs.  Thome  was  lying  with  her  eyes  closed,  looking 
very  white  and  still ;  but  as  soon  as  she  perceived  who  it 
was  that  had  entered,  a  change  came  over  her ;  she  still  look 
ed  white,  but  she  seemed  more  alive  ;  she  raised  herself 
slightly  on  one  arm,  and  beckoned  to  the  visitor. 

14 


210  .EAST  ANGELS. 

"Now  don't  try  to  talk,  that's  a  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Carew, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  fanning  the 
sick  woman  with  tireless  hand. 

Mrs.  Thome  slowly  turned  her  head  towards  Betty,  and 
surveyed  her  solemnly  with  eyes  which  seemed  to  have 
grown  during  her  illness  to  twice  their  former  size.  "Go — 
away,"  she  said,  in  her  whispering  voice,  which  preserved 
even  in  its  faintness  the  remains  of  her  former  clear  utter 
ance. 

"  What  ?"  said  the  astonished  Betty,  not  sure  that  she  had 
heard  aright. 

"  I  wish — yon  would  go — away,"  repeated  Mrs.  Thorne, 
slowly.  And  with  her  finger  she  made  a  little  line  in  the 
air,  which  seemed  to  indicate,  like  a  dotted  curve  on  a  map, 
Betty's  course  from  the  bed  to  the  door. 

Betty  gave  her  fan  to  Margaret.  Incapable  of  resentment, 
the  good  soul  whispered  to  Garda,  as  she  passed  :  "  They're 
very  often  so,  you  know — sick  people ;  they  get  tired,  of  see 
ing  the  same  persons  about  them,  of  course,  and  I  am  sure 
it's  very  natural.  I'll  come  back  later,  when  she's  asleep." 

"  I  was  not  tired  of  seeing  her,  that  wasn't  it,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Thorne,  who  had  overheard  this  aside.  "  But  I  wanted 
to  see  Margaret  Harold  alone,  and  without  any  fuss  made 
about  it ;  and  the  first  step  was  to  get  her  out  of  the  room. 
Now,  Edgarda,  you  go  too.  Go  down  to  the  garden,  where 
Mrs.  Carew  will  not  see  you  ;  stay  there  a  while,  the  fresh  air 
will  do  you  good." 

"But,  mamma,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  leave  yon." 

"Do  as  I  tell  you,  my  daughter.  If  I  should  need  any 
thing,  Margaret  will  call  you." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  Garda,  that  I  shall  not  know 
how  to  take  care  of  her,"  said  Margaret,  reassuringly.  "  I 
am  a  good  nurse."  She  arranged  Mrs.  Thome's  pillows  as 
she  spoke,  and  gently  and  skilfully  laid  her  down  upon  them 
again. 

"Of  course,"  whispered  Mrs.  Thorne.  "Any  one  could 
see  that."  Then,  as  Garda  still  lingered,  "  Go,  Garda,"  she 
said,  briefly.  And  Garda  went. 

As  soon  as  the  heavy  door  closed  behind  her,  Mrs.  Thorne 
began  to  speak.  "  I  have  been  so  anxious  to  see  you,"  she 


EAST  ANGELS.  211 

said ;  "  the  thought  has  not  been  once  out  of  ray  mind.  But 
I  suppose  my  mind  has  not  been  perfectly  clear,  because, 
though  I  have  asked  for  you  over  and  over  again,  no  one  has 
paitTany  attention,  has  seemed  to  understand  me."  She 
spoke  in  her  little  thread  of  a  voice,  and  looked  at  her  visit 
or  with  large,  clear  eyes. 

Margaret  bent  over  her.  "Do  not  exert  yourself  to  talk 
to  me  now,"  she  answered.  "You  will  be  stronger  to-mor 
row." 

"Yes,  I  may  be  stronger  to-morrow.  Ho\y  long  can  you 
stay?" 

"  Several  days,  if  you  care  to  have  me." 

"That  is  kind.  I  shall  have  time,  then.  But  I  mustn't 
wait  too  long ;  of  one  thing  I  am  sure,  Margaret :  I  shall  not 
recover." 

"That  is  a  fancy,"  said  Margaret,  stroking  the  thin  little 
hand  that  lay  on  the  white  coverlet;  "Dr.  Kirby  says  you 
are  much  better."  She  spoke  with  the  optimism  that  be 
longs  to  the  sick-room,  but  in  her  heart  she  had  another 
opinion.  A  change  had  come  over  Mrs.  Thome's  face,  the 
effect  of  which  was  very  striking;  it  was  not  so  much  the 
increase  of  pallor,  or  a  more  wasted  look,  as  the  absence  of 
that  indomitable  spirit  which  had  hitherto  animated  its  every 
fibre,  so  that  from  the  smooth  scanty  light  hair  under  the 
widow's  cap  down  to  the  edges  of  the  firm  little  jaws  there 
had  been  so  much  courage,  and,  in  spite  of  the  constant  anx 
iety,  so  much  resolution,  that  one  noticed  only  that.  But 
now,  in  the  complete  departure  of  this  expression  (which 
gleamed  on  only  in  the  eyes),  one  saw  at  last  what  an  ex 
hausted  little  face  it  was,  how  worn  out  with  the  cares  of 
life,  finished,  ready  for  the  end. 

"  Yes,  I  am  better,  it  is  true,  for  the  present,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Thorne.  "But  that  is  all.  My  mother  and  my  two 
sisters  died  of  slow  consumption,  I  shall  die  of  the  rapid 
kind.  I  shall  die  and  leave  Garda.  Do  you  comprehend 
what  that  is  to  me — to  die  and  leave  Garda?"  Her  gaze,  as 
she  said  this,  was  so  clear,  there  was  such  a  far-seeing  intelli 
gence  in  it,  such  a  long  experience  of  life,  and  (it  almost 
seemed)  such  a  prophetic  knowledge  of  death,  that  the 
vouncfer  woman  found  herself  forced  to  make  answer  to  the 


212  EAST  ANGELS. 

mental  strength  within  rather  than  to  the  weakness  of  the 
physical  frame  which  contained  it.  "  Why  am  I  taken  now, 
just  when  she  will  need  me  most?"  went  on  the  mother's 
whisper,  which  contrasted  so  strangely  in  its  feebleness  with 
the  power  of  her  gaze.  "Garda  had  only  me.  And  now  I 
am  called.  What  will  become  of  her?" 

"Yon  have  warm  friends  here,  Mrs.  Thome ;  they  are  all 
devoted  to  Garda.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  to  each  one  of 
them  she  was  as  dear  as  an  own  child." 

"  Yes,  she  is.  They  would  do  anything  in  the  world  they 
could  for  her.  But,  I  ask  yon,  what  can  they  do  ?  The 
Kirbys,  the  Moores,  Betty  Carew,  and  Madam  Giron,  Madam 
liuiz — what  can  they  do  ?  Nothing  !  And  Garda — oh,  Gar- 
da  needs  some  one  who  is — different." 

Margaret  did  not  reply  to  this;  and  after  a  moment  Mrs. 
Thorno  went  on. 

"  When  Mr.  Winthrop  buys  the  place,"  she  said,  with  the 
touching  Gracias  confidence  that  a  few  thousands  would  con 
stitute  wealth,  "  my  child  need  not  be  a  charge,  pecuniarily. 
But  of  course  I  know  that  in  other  ways  she  might  be.  And 
I  cannot  leave  her  to  them,  these  people  here ;  I  cannot  die 
and  do  that.  Garda  is  not  a  usual  girl,  Margaret  —  you 
must  have  seen  it  for  yourself.  I  only  want  a  little  oversight 
of  the  proper  kind  for  her;  that  would  be  all  that  I  should 
ask ;  it  would  not  be  a  great  deal  of  care.  From  the  very 
first,  Margaret,  I  have  liked  you  so  much  !  You  have  no 
idea  how  much."  Her  voice  died  away,  but  her  eyes  were 
full  of  eloquence.  Slowly  a  tear  rose  in  each,  welled  over, 
and  dropped  down  on  the  white  cheek  below,  but  without 
dimming  the  gaze,  which  continued  its  fixed,  urgent  prayer. 

Margaret  had  remained  silent.  Now  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hand,  the  elbow  supported  on  the  palm  of  the  oth 
er.  Mrs.  Thornc  watched  her,  mutely  ;  she  seemed  to  feel 
that  she  had  made  her  appeal,  that  Margaret  comprehended 
it,  was  perhaps  considering  it ;  at  any  rate,  that  her  place 
now  was  to  wait  with  humility  for  her  answer. 

At  length  Margaret's  hand  dropped.  She  turned  towards 
the  waiting  eyes.  "Before  your  illness,  Mrs.  Thornc,"  she 
said,  in  her  tranquil  voice,  "  I  had  thought  of  asking  you 
whether  yon  would  be  willing  to  let  me  take  Garda  north 


EAST  ANGELS.  213 

with  me  for  sonic  months.  I  have  a  friend  in  New  York 
who  would  receive  her,  and  be  very  kind  to  her;  she  could 
stay  with  this  lady,  and  take  lessons.  I  should  see  her  every 
day,  it  would  not  be  quite  like  a  school." 

"  That  is  what  I  long  for — that  she  should  be  with  you," 
said  Mrs.  Thome,  not  going  into  the  details  of  the  plan,  but 
seizing  upon  the  main  fact.  "  That  you  should  have  charge 
of  her,  Margaret — that  is  now  my  passionate  wish."  She 
used  the  strongest  word  she  knew,  a  word  she  had  always 
thought  wicked  in  its  intensity.  But  it  was  applicable  to 
her  present  overwhelming  desire. 

"And  I  had  thought  that  perhaps  you  would  follow  us, 
a  little  later,"  pursued  Margaret;  "I  hope  you  will  do  so 
still." 

Mrs.  Thome  made  a  motion  with  her  hand,  as  if  saying, 
"Why  try  to  deceive?"  She  lay  with  her  eyes  closed,  rest 
ing  after  her  suspense.  "  You  are  so  good  and  kind,"  she 
murmured.  "  But  not  kinder,  Margaret,  than  I  knew  you 
would  be."  Her  voice  died  away  again,  and  again  she  rested. 

"  I  have  asked  and  accepted  so  much — for  of  course  I  ac 
cept  instantly  your  offer — that  I  feel  that  I  ought  not  to  ask 
more,"  she  began  again,  though  without  opening  her  eyes. 
"  But  I  have  got  to  die.  And  I  trust  you  so,  Margaret — " 

"Why  do  you  trust  me?"  interposed  Margaret,  abruptly. 
"You  have  no  grounds  for  it;  you  hardly  know  me.  It 
makes  me  very  uncomfortable,  Mrs.  Thorne." 

But  Mrs.  Thorne  only  smiled.  She  lifted  her  hand,  and 
laid  it  on  Margaret's  arm.  "My  dear,"  she  said, simply  (and 
it  was  rare  for  Mrs.  Thorne  to  be  simple ;  even  now,  though 
deeply  in  earnest,  she  had  had  the  old  appearance  of  select 
ing  with  care  what  she  was  about  to  say),  "  I  don't  know 
why  any  more  than  you  do !  I  only  know  that  it  is  so ;  it 
has  been  so  from  the  beginning.  I  think  I  understand  you," 
she  added. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  the  younger  woman,  turning  away. 

"At  any  rate,  I  understand  your  steadfastness,  Margaret. 
You  have  steadfastness  in  the  supreme  degree.  Many  women 
haven't  any,  and  they  are  much  the  happiest.  But  you,  Mar 
garet,  are  different.  And  it  is  your  steadfastness  that  attracts 
me  so — for  my  poor  child's  sake  I  mean.  Yes,  for  hers  I 


214  EAST  ANGELS. 

must  say  a  little  more — I  must.  If  you  could  only  see  your 
way  to  letting  her  remain  under  your  care  as  long  as  she  is 
so  young — you  see  I  mean  longer  than  the  few  months  you 
spoke  of  just  now, — it  would  make  my  dying  easier.  For 
it's  going  to  be  very  hard  for  me  to  die.  Perhaps  you  think 
I'm  not  going  to.  But  I  know  that  I  am.  All  at  once  my 
courage  has  left  me.  It  never  did  before,  and  so  I  know  it 
is  a  sign." 

Margaret  sat  listening,  she  looked  deeply  troubled.  "  You 
wish  to  intrust  to  me  a  great  responsibility,"  she  began. 

"  And  it  seems  to  you  very  selfish.  Of  course  I  know  that 
it  is  selfish.  But  it  is  desperation,  Margaret;  it  is  my  feel 
ing  about  Garda.  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  I  am  relying  a 
little  upon  your  having  suffered  yourself.  If  you  had  not,  I 
should  never  have  asked  you,  because  people  who  haven't 
suffered,  women  especially,  are  so  hard.  But  I  saw  that  you 
had  suffered,  I  saw  it  in  the  expression  of  your  face  before  I 
had  heard  a  word  of  your  history." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  my  history  ?"  asked  Margaret,  the 
guarded  reserve  which  was  so  often  there  again  taking  pos 
session  of  her  voice  and  eyes. 

"  In  actual  fact,  very  little.  Only  what  Mrs.  Rutherford 
told  Betty  Carew." 

"What  did  she  tell  her?" 

"  That  her  nephew,  your  husband,  was  travelling  abroad — 
that  was  all.  But  when  I  learned  that  the  travelling  had 
lasted  seven  years,  and  that  nothing  was  said  of  his  return 
or  of  your  joining  him,  of  course  I  knew  that  inclination,  his 
or  yours,  was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  And  I  imagined  pain 
somewhere,  and  probably  for  you.  Because  you  are  good ; 
and  it  is  the  good  who  suffer." 

"  In  reality  you  know  nothing  about  it,"  replied  Margaret 
to  these  low-breathed  sentences.  "  I  think  I  ought  to  tell 
you,"  she  went  on,  in  the  same  reserved  tone,  "  that  both 
Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Mr.  Winthrop  think  I  have  been  much 
to  blame ;  it  may  make  a  difference  in  your  estimation  of 
me." 

"Not  the  least.  For  Mrs.  Rutherford's  opinions  I  care 
nothing.  As  to  Mr.  Winthrop,  Mr.  Winthrop — " 

"Agrees  with  Mrs.  Rutherford." 


EAST  ANGELS.  215 

"He  will  live  to  change  his  opinion;  I  think  very  highly 
of  Mr.  Winthrop,  but  on  this  subject  he  is  in  the  wrong. 
Do  you  know  why  I  think  so  highly  of  him  ?" 

But  Margaret's  face  remained  unresponsive. 

"  I  think  highly  of  him  because  he  has  had  such  a  per 
fect,  such  a  delicate  comprehension  of  Garda — I  mean  late 
ly,  through  all  this  fancy  of  hers — such  a  strange  one — for 
that  painter."  Mrs.  Thome  always  called  Lucian  a  "paint 
er,"  very  much  as  though  he  had  been  a  decorator  of  the  ex 
terior  of  houses.  His  profession  of  civil  engineer  she  stead 
ily  ignored;  perhaps,  however,  she  did  not  ignore  it  more 
than  Lucian  himself  did. 

"  Mr.  Winthrop  likes  Garda  so  much  that  it  is  easy  for 
him  to  be  considerate,"  Margaret  answered. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  murmured  Mrs.  Thome  ;  "  on  the  con 
trary.  While  I  am  most  grateful  to  him  for  his  considera 
tion,  I  have  feared  that  it  was  in  itself  a  proof  that  he  did 
not  really  care  for  her.  If  he  had  cared,  would  he  have  been 
so  patient  with  her — her  whim  ?  Would  he  have  let  her  talk 
on  by  the  hour,  as  I  know  she  has  done,  about  Lucian  Spen 
ser?  Men  are  jealous,  extremely  so;  far  more  so  than  wom 
en  ever  are.  They  don't  call  it  jealousy,  of  course ;  they  have 
half  a  dozen  names  for  it — weariness,  superiority,  disgust — 
whatever  you  please.  You  don't  agree  with  me?" 

"  It's  a  general  view,  and  I've  given  up  general  views.  But 
of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  Mrs.  Thome — Evert  admires  Garda 
greatly." 

The  mother  raised  herself  so  that  she  could  look  at  Mar 
garet  more  closely.  "Do  you  think  so?  —  do  you  really 
think  so  ?"  she  said,  almost  panting. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Then,  Margaret,  I  will  have  no  concealments  from  you, 
not  one.  If  Mr.  Winthrop  should  ever  care  enough  for  my 
poor  child — some  time  in  the  future — to  wish  to  make  her  his 
wife,  I  should  be  so  happy,  I  am  sure  I  should  know  it  wher 
ever  I  was !  I  could  trust  her  to  him,  he  is  a  man  to  trust. 
He  is  much  older.  But  if  she  should  once  begin  to  care  for 
him,  that  would  make  no  difference  to  her,  nothing  would 
make  any  difference;  she  will  never  be  influenced  by  anything 
but  her  own  liking,  it  has  always  been  so.  And  if — she  could 


216  EAST  ANGELS. 

once — begin  to  care —  '  The  short  sentences,  which  had  been 
eager,  now  grew  fainter,  stopped ;  the  head  sank  back  upon 
the  pillows  again.  "  If  she  were  to  be  with  you,  Margaret, 
she  would  have — more  opportunity — to  begin." 

"About  that  I  could  promise  nothing,"  said  Margaret,  with 
decision.  "  I  could  take  no  step  to  influence  Garda  in  that 
way." 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to.  I  myself  wouldn't  do  anything, 
that  would  be  wrong;  on  such  subjects  all  must  be  left  to  a 
Higher  Power,"  replied  Mrs.  Thome,  with  conviction.  For, 
in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  be  Thome  and  Duero,  she  had  never 
departed  a  hair's-breadth  from  her  American  belief  in  com 
plete  liberty  of  personal  choice  in  marriage.  Love,  real  love, 
was  a  feeling  heaven-born,  heaven-directed  ;  it  behooved  no 
one  to  meddle  with  it,  not  even  a  mother.  "  I  could  never 
scheme  in  that  way,"  she  went  on,  "I  only  wanted  you  to 
know  all  my  thoughts.  The  great  thing  with  me,  of  course, 
is  that  she  is  to  be  in  your  charge." 

Here  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  large  room  opened, 
and  Dr.  Kirby  came  in  ;  he  had  returned  as  soon  as  possible, 
putting  off  all  other  engagements.  "  You  look  better,"  he 
said  to  his  patient,  with  his  hand  on  her  pulse.  "Come, 
this  is  doing  well." 

"  I  am  better,"  murmured  Mrs.  Thorne,  looking  gratefully 
at  Margaret.  Mrs.  Carew  soon  followed  the  Doctor ;  Mar 
garet  went  down  to  the  garden  to  find  Garda,  the  girl  who 
was  to  become  so  unexpectedly  her  charge.  For  she  shared 
the  mother's  feeling ;  the  illness  might  advance  slowly,  but 
it  would  conquer  in  the  end. 

Garda  was  in  the  garden,  lying  at  full  length  under  the 
great  rose-tree,  on  a  shawl  which  she  had  spread  upon  the 
ground  ;  her  hands  were  clasped  under  her  head,  and  she 
was  gazing  up  into  the  sky.  Carlos,  standing  near,  with  his 
neck  acutely  arched,  his  breast  puffed  out  and  his  beak  thrust 
in  among  the  feathers,  looked  like  a  gentleman  of  the  old 
school  in  a  ruffled  shirt,  with  his  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  coat. 

"  Does  mamma  want  me  ?"  asked  Garda,  as  Margaret  came 
up. 

"Dr.  Kirby  and  Mrs.  Carcw  are  there.  No,  I  do  not  think 
she  wants  you  at  present." 


EAST  ANGELS.  217 

"  Come  down  on  the  shawl,  then,  and  look  up  into  the  sky," 
pursued  Garcia.  "  I've  never  tried  it  before — looking  straight 
up  in  this  way — and  I  assure  you  I  can  see  miles!" 

"  I'm  not  such  a  sun  -  worshipper  as  you  are,"  answered 
Margaret,  taking  a  seat  on  the  bench  in  the  shade. 

"The  sun's  almost  down.  No,  it  isn't  the  sun,  it's  because 
you  never  in  the  world  could  stretch  yourself  out  full  length 
on  the  ground,  as  I'm  doing  now.  The  ground's  nice  and 
warm,  and  I  love  to  lie  on  it;  but  you— you  have  always  sat 
in  chairs,  you  have  been  drilled." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  drilled,"  answered  Margaret,  sombrely, 
looking  at  the  graceful  figure  on  the  shawl. 

Garda  did  not  notice  the  sombre  tone,  her  attention  was 
up  in  the  sky.  After  a  while  she  said,  "  Mr.  Winthrop  hasn't 
been  here  to-day  ;  I  wonder  why  ?" 

"  He  won't  be  able  to  come  so  often  while  I  am  here,  he 
will  have  to  see  to  Aunt  Katrina." 

"  Mist'  Wintarp  desiahs  to  know  whedder  yen's  tome, 
Miss  Gyarda,"  said  the  voice  of  old  Pablo.  "  I  tole  him  I 
farnsied  you  was  in  de  gyarden."  Pablo  recognized  Garda 
as  a  Duero ;  he  treated  her  therefore  with  respect,  and  benig- 
.nant  affection. 

Winthrop  now  appeared  at  the  garden  gate,  and  Margaret 
rose. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  go  in,  too  ?"  said  Garda. 

"No,  stay  as  long  as  you  like;  I  will  send  word,  if  your 
mother  asks  for  yon,"  Margaret  responded. 

She  left  the  garden  by  another  way.  When  she  had  gone 
some  distance,  she  looked  back.  Garda  had  changed  her  po 
sition  ;  she  was  still  looking  at  the  sky,  though  she  was  no 
longer  lying  at  length ;  she  had  curled  herself  up,  and  was 
leaning  against  a  dwarf  tree.  Winthrop  was  in  Margaret's 
place  on  the  bench,  and  Garda  had  evidently  spoken  to  him 
of  the  sky,  for  he,  too,  was  looking  up. 

]>ut  he  did  not  look  long;  while  Margaret  stood  there,  his 
eyes  dropped  to  the  figure  at  his  feet.  This  was  not  surpris 
ing.  There  was  nothing  in  the  sky  that  could  approach  it. 


218  EAST  ANGELS. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MRS.  THORNE  improved.  She  was  still  very  weak,  con 
fined  to  her  bed,  and  the  cough  continued  at  intervals  to 
rack  her  wasted  frame.  But  there  was  now  no  fever;  she 
slept  through  the  nights ;  she  had  always  been  so  delicate  in 
appearance  that  she  did  not  seem  much  more  fragile  now. 
These  at  least  were  the  assertions  of  her  Gracias  friends  ;  her 
Gracias  friends  were  determined  to  believe  that  time  and 
good  nursing  would  restore  her.  The  nursing  they  attended 
to  themselves,  and  with  devoted  care,  one  succeeding  the 
other  day  after  day.  Mrs.  Thome  appreciated  their  good 
offices;  but  she  no  longer  concealed  her  preference  for  the 
companionship,  whenever  it  was  to  be  obtained,  of  Margaret 
Harold. 

"  I  have  pretended  so  long !"  she  said  to  Margaret,  when 
they  were  alone  together.  "  I  am  so  tired  of  pretending ! 
and  with  you  I  can  be  myself.  It  isn't  really  necessary  now 
to  be  any  one  else — now  that  I  shall  so  soon  have  to  go; 
but  I  have  got  into  such  a  habit  of  it  with  the  others  that  I 
shouldn't  know  how  to  stop.  With  you  I  can  talk  freely, 
and  you  are  the  only  one." 

"  So  long  as  it  doesn't  tire  you,"  Margaret  answered. 

"  It  tires  me  a  great  deal  more  to  be  silent,"  responded 
Mrs.  Thome. 

Often,  therefore,  when  Margaret  came  down  to  East  An 
gels,  Mrs.  Thome  would  send  Garda  into  the  open  air  to 
stroll  about,  or  rest  under  the  rose-tree,  and  then,  while  Mad 
am  Ruiz,  or  Mrs.  Carew,  or  whoever  happened  to  be  in  at 
tendance,  was  sleeping  to  make  up  for  the  broken  rest  of 
the  coming  night,  she  would  talk  to  her  northern  friend,  talk 
with  an  openness  which  was  in  itself  a  sign  that  the  many 
cautions  of  a  peculiarly  cautious  life  were  drawing  to  a  close. 
One  reason  for  this  freedom  was  that  in  spite  of  the  appar 
ent  improvement,  there  were  no  illusions  between  these  two 
regarding  the  hoped-for  recovery.  "We  are  northerners, 


EAST  ANGELS.  219 

Margaret,  and  we  know,"  Mrs.  Thome  had  said  one  day,  when 
Margaret  had  raised  her  so  that  she  could  cough  with  less 
difficulty.  "  Consumption— our  kind— these  southerners  can- 
not  grasp  !"  She  did  not  wish  to  die,  poor  woman ;  she  clung 
to  life  with  desperation ;  nevertheless,  she  found  a  moment 
ary  satisfaction  in  a  community  of  feeling  with  Margaret 
over  this  southern  lack. 

"  Oh,  these  southern  lacks — how  Garcia  would  have  been 
part  of  them !"  she  went  on.  "  If  I  had  had  to  leave  her 
here,  if  you  had  not  promised  to  take  her,  how  inevitably  she 
would  have  been  sunk  in  them,  lost  in  them  !  she  would  nev 
er  have  got  out.  Oh !  I  so  hate  and  loathe  it  all — the  idle, 
unrealizing,  contented  life  of  this  tiresome,  idle  coast.  They 
amounted  to  something  once,  perhaps;  but  their  day  is  over, 
and  will  never  come  back.  They  don't  know  it ;  you  couldn't 
make  them  believe  it  even  if  you  should  try.  That  is  what 
makes  you  rage — they're  so  completely  mistaken  and  so  com 
pletely  satisfied !  Every  idea  they  have  is  directly  contrary 
to  alfthe  principles  of  the  government  under  which  they  ex 
ist.  But  what  is  that  to  them?  They  think  themselves  su 
perior  to  the  government.  I'm  not  exaggerating,  it's  really 
true;  I  can  speak  from  experience  after  my  life  with  that" 
— she  paused,  then  chose  her  word  clearly — "  with  that  dev 
ilish  Old  Madam !" 

It  seemed  to  Margaret  as  if  this  poor  exile  were  imbibing 
a  few  last  draughts  of  vitality  from  the  satisfaction  which 
even  this  late  expression  of  her  real  belief  gave  her ;  she  had 
been  silent  so  long ! 

Her  Thome  and  Ducro  envelope  was  dropping  from  her 
more  and  more.  "Oh  yes,  I  have  stood  up  for  them,"  she 
said,  another  time.  "  Oh  yes,  I  have  boasted  of  them,  I  knew 
how  !  I  knew  how  better  than  any  of  them  ;  I  made  a  study 
of  it.  The  first  Spaniards  were  blue-blooded  knights  and 
gentlemen,  of  course ;  they  never  worked  with  their  hands. 
But  the  Puritans  were  blacksmiths  and  ploughmen  and  wood- 
choppers — anything  and  everything;  I  knew  how  to  bring 
this  all  out — make  a  picture  of  it.  '  Think  what  their  hands 
must  have  been !'  I  used  to  say  "  (and  here  her  weak  voice 
took  on  for  a  moment  its  old  crispness  of  enunciation) — 
" '  what  great  coarse  red  things,  with  stiff,  stubby  fingers, 


220  EAST  ANGELS. 

gashed  by  the  axe,  hardened  by  digging,  roughened  and 
cracked  by  the  cold.  Estimable  men  they  were,  no  doubt; 
heroic — as  much  as  you  like.  But  gentlemen  they  were  not.' 
I  have  said  it  hundreds  of  times.  For  those  idle,  tiresome, 
wicked  old  Dueros,  Margaret  (the  English  Thornes  too,  for 
that  matter),  were  Garda's  ancestors,  and  the  right  to  talk 
about  them  was  the  only  thing  the  poor  child  had  inherited; 
naturally  I  made  the  most  of  it.  They  were  the  feature  of 
this  neighborhood,  of  course — those  Spaniards,  I  knew  that; 
I  had  imagination  enough  to  appreciate  it  far  more,  I  think, 
than  the  very  people  who  were  born  here.  I  made  every 
thing  of  it,  this  feature;  I  learned  the  history  and  all  the  be 
liefs  and  ideas.  I  always  hoped  to  get  hold  of  some  north 
erners  to  whom  I  could  tell  it,  tell  it  in  such  a  way  that  it 
would  be  of  use  to  us,  make  a  background  for  Garda  some 
time.  That's  all  ended  ;  I  have  never  had  the  proper  chance, 
and  now  of  course  never  shall.  But  at  least  I  can  tell  you, 
Margaret,  now  that  it  is  all  over,  that  in  my  heart  I  have  al 
ways  hated  the  whole  thing— that  in  my  heart  I  have  always 
ranked  the  lowest  Puritan  far,  far  above  the  very  finest  Span 
iard  they  could  muster.  They  didn't  work  with  their  hands, 
these  knights  and  gentlemen;  and  why?  Because  they 
caught  the  poor  Indians  and  made  them  work  for  them  ; 
because  they  imported  Human  Flesh,  they  dealt  in  negro 
slaves!"  It  was  startling  to  see  the  faded  blue  eyes  send 
forth  such  a  flash,  a  flash  of  the  old  abolitionist  fire,  which 
fora  moment  made  them  young  and  brilliant  again. 

Margaret  tried  to  soothe  her.  "It  is  nothing,''  said  Mrs. 
Thome,  smiling  faintly  and  relapsing  into  quiet 

But  the  next  day  Melissa  Whiting  blazed  forth  anew.  "  I 
detest  every  vestige  of  those  old  ideas  of  theirs ;  I  hate  the 
pride  and  shiftlessness  of  all  this  land.  I  am  attached  to 
our  friends  here,  of  course ;  they  have  always  been  kind  to 
me.  But — it  is  written  !  They  will  go  down,  down,  they 
and  all  who  are  like  unto  them  ;  already  they  belong  to  the 
Past,  Their  country  here  will  be  opened  up,"improved  ;  but 
not  by  .them.  It  will  be  made  modern,  made  rich  under  their 
very  eyes  ;  but  not  by  them.  It  will  be  filled  with  new  peo 
ple,  new  life ;  but  they  will  get  no  benefit  from  it,  their  faces 
will  always  be  turned  the  other  way.  They  will  dwindle  in 


EAST  ANGELS.  221 

numbers,  but  they  will  not  change;  generations  must  pass 
before  the  old  leaven  will  be  worn  out.  Could  I  leave  Garda 
to  that  ?  Could  I  die,  knowing  that  she  would  live  over  there 
on  Patricio,  on  that  forlorn  Ruiz  plantation,  or  down  the  riv 
er  in  that  tumble-down  house  of  the  Girons — that  Manuel 
with  his  insufferable  airs,  or  that  wooden  Torres  with  his  ri 
diculous  pride,  would  be  all  she  should  ever  know  of  life  and 
happiness— my  beautiful,  beautiful  child?  I  could  not,  Mar 
garet  ;  I  could  not."  Her  eyes  were  wet. 

"  But  she  is  not  to  be  left  to  them,"  said  Margaret. 

"  No ;  you  have  saved  me  from  that,"  responded  the  moth 
er,  gratefully.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  took  Margaret's  for 
a  moment ;  then  relinquished  it.  The  brief  clasp  would  have 
seemed  cold  to  their  southern  friends ;  but  it  expressed  all 
that  was  necessary  between  these  two  northerners. 

Another  day  the  sick  woman  resumed  her  retrospect,  she 
spoke  of  her  early  life.  "  I  was  a  poor  school-teacher,  you 
know  ;  I  had  no  near  relatives,  no  home,  I  was  considered  to 
have  made  a  wonderful  match  when  I  married  as  I  did.  Ev 
erybody  was  astonished  at  my  good  luck — perfectly  aston 
ished  ;  they  couldn't  comprehend  how  it  had  happened.  When 
they  knew,  in  New  Bristol,  that  I  was  to  marry  Mr.  Edgar 
Thome,  of  Florida;  that  I  was  to  be  taken  down  to  an  old 
Spanish  plantation  which  had  been  in  his  family  for  genera 
tions  ;  that  I  was  to  live  there  in  luxury,  and  '  a  tropical  cli 
mate' —  they  all  came  to  see  me  again,  to  look  at  me;  they 
seemed  to  think  that  I  must  have  changed  in  some  way,  that 
I  couldn't  be  the  same  Melissa  Whiting  who  had  taught  their 
district  school.  At  New  Bristol  the  snow  in  the  winter  is 
four  feet  deep.  At  New  Bristol  everybody  is  busy,  and  ev 
erybody  is  poor.  But  I  was  to  live  among  palm-trees  in  a 
place  called  Gracias-a-Dios ;  I  was  to  go  down  by  sea ;  roses 
bloomed  there  at  Christmas-time,  and  oranges  Avere  to  be  had 
for  the  asking.  Gracias-a-Dios  is  very  far  from  New  Bristol, 
Margaret,"  said  Melissa  Whiting,  pausing.  "  It's  all  the  dis 
tance  between  a  real  place  and  an  ideal  one.  I  know  how 
far  that  is !" 

She  was  silent  for  some  minutes  ;  then  she  went  on.  "  My 
elevation — for  it  seemed  that  at  New  Bristol — was  like  a  fairy 
story ;  I  presume  they  are  telling  it  still.  But  if  I  hadn't 


222  EAST  ANGELS. 

you  behind  me,  Margaret,  I  would  put  Garda  back  there  in 
all  the  snow,  I  would  put  her  back  in  my  old  red  school- 
house  on  the  hill  (only  she  wouldn't  know  how  to  teach,  poor 
child !) — I  would  do  it  in  a  moment,  I  say,  if  I  had  the  pow 
er,  rather  than  leave  her  here  among  the  '  roses,'  the  *  oranges,' 
and  the  '  palms.'  "  (Impossible  to  give  the  accent  with  which 
she  pronounced  these  words.)  "I  don't  say  my  husband 
wasn't  kind  to  me ;  he  was  very  kind ;  but — the  Old  Madam 
was  here  !  He  only  lived  a  short  time  ;  and  then,  more  than 
ever,  the  Old  Madam  was  here  !  Well,  I  did  the  best  I  could 
— you  must  give  me  that  credit :  there  was  Garda  to  think 
of,  and  I  had  no  other  home.  It's  so  unfortunate  to  be  poor, 
Margaret — have  you  ever  thought  of  it? — unfortunate,  I  mean, 
for  the  disposition.  So  many  people  could  be  as  amiable  and 
agreeable  and  yielding  as  any  one,  if  they  only  had  a  little 
more  money — just  a  little  more  !  I  could  have  been,  I  know. 
But  how  could  I  be  yielding  when  I  had  everything  on  my 
hands?  Oh!  you  have  no  idea  how  I  have  worked!  We 
had  no  income  to  live  upon,  Garda  and  I,  there  hasn't  been 
any  for  a  long  time ;  we  have  had  the  house  and  furniture, 
the  land,  Pablo  and  Raqucl, — that's  all.  We  have  lived  on 
the  things  that  we  had,  the  things  that  came  off  the  place, 
with  what  Pablo  has  been  able  to  shoot,  and  the  fish  and 
oysters  from  the  creeks  and  lagoon.  The  few  supplies  which 
one  is  obliged  to  buy,  such  as  tea  and  coffee,  I  have  got  by 
selling  our  oranges;  I  have  taken  enormous  pains  with  the 
oranges  on  that  account.  The  same  way  with  Garda's  shoes 
and  gloves ;  I  couldn't  make  shoes  and  gloves,  though  I  con 
fess  I  did  try.  Then,  if  any  one  broke  a  pane  of  glass,  that 
took  money  ;  and  there  were  a  few  other  little  things.  But, 
with  these  exceptions,  I  have  tried  to  do  everything  myself, 
and  manage  without  spending.  I  have  kept  all  the  furniture 
in  repair;  I  have  painted  and  varnished  and  cleaned  with  my 
own  hands ;  I  learned  to  mend  the  crockery  and  even  the  tins. 
I  have  made  almost  everything  that  Garda  and  I  have  worn, 
of  course ;  I  braid  the  palmetto  hats  we  both  wear ;  I  have 
dyed  and  patched  and  turned  and  darned — oh  !  you  haven't 
a  conception  !  Some  of  the  table-cloths  are  nothing  but  darns. 
I  could  put  in  myself  the  new  panes  of  glass,  after  they  were 
once  bought.  And,  every  month  or  two,  I  have  had  to  mend 


EAST  ANGELS.  223 

the  roof,  to  keep  it  from  leaking;  generally  I  did  that  at  sun 
rise,  but  I  have  done  it,  too,  on  moonlight  nights,  late,  when 
no  one  was  likely  to  come.  Then,  every  single  day,  I  have 
had  to  begin  all  over  again  with  Pablo  and  Raquel.  Three 
times  every  week  I  have  had  to  go  out  myself  and  stand  over 
Pablo  to  see  that  he  did  as  I  wished  about  the  orange-trees. 
Always  the  very  same  things ;  but  we  have  been  at  it  in  this 
way  for  years !  P>ery  day  of  my  life  I  have  had  to  go  out 
and  see  with  my  own  eyes  whether  Raquel  had  wiped  off  the 
shelves;  three  hundred  and  sixty -five  times  each  year,  for 
seventeen  years,  she  has  pretended  to  forget  it." 

She  lay  silent,  as  if  reviewing  it  all.  "  Perhaps  I  have  been 
over-thorough,"  she  resumed.  "But  somehow  I  couldn't  help 
it,  thoroughness  has  always  been  my  mania.  It  has  taken 
me  to  great  lengths — I  see  it  now;  it  has  made  burdens 
where  there  needn't  have  been  any.  Still,  I  couldn't  have 
helped  it,  Margaret;  I  really  don't  think  I  could.  After 
sweeping,  I  always  used  to  go  down  on  my  hands  and  knees 
and  dust  the  carpets  with  a  cloth.  And  I  used  to  pick  up 
every  seed  that  Dick,  my  canary,  had  dropped.  Dear  little 
Dick,  how  I  cried  when  he  died ! — he  was  the  last  northern 
thing  I  had  left;  yet,  would  you  believe  it?  I  pretended  I 
didn't  care  for  him,  that  I  was  tired  of  his  singing.  I  pre 
tended  I  preferred  the  mocking-birds.  Mocking-birds !"  re 
peated  Melissa  Whiting,  with  whispered  but  scathing  con 
tempt. 

She  came  back  to  the  subject  of  her  thoroughness  when 
Margaret  paid  her  next  visit.  "  It  has  been  a  hard  task-mas 
ter ;  I  have  been  thinking  it  over,"  she  said.  "  Still,  without 
it,  should  I  have  got  on  as  well  even  as  I  have  ?  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  should.  Take  the  way  I  have  made  myself  over — 
made  myself  a  Thome.  I  couldn't  have  lived  here  at  all  as 
I  was,  there  was  no  room  for  Melissa  Whiting.  I  saw  that; 
and  so,  while  I  was  about  it,  I  made  the  change  complete. 
Oh  yes,  I  was  very  complete!  I  swallowed  everything.  I 
even  swallowed  slavery, — I,  a  New  England  girl, — what  do 
you  say  to  that? — a  New  England  girl,  abolitionist  to  the 
core!  It  was  the  most  heroic  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life. 
Very  likely  you  don't  think  so,  but  it  was.  For,  never  for 
one  instant  were  my  real  feelings  altered,  my  real  beliefs 


224  EAST  ANGELS. 

changed — I  couldn't  have  changed  them  if  I  had  tried.  And 
I  could  have  died  for  them  at  any  moment,  if  I  had  been 
called  upon  to  do  so,  though  I  ivas  playing  such  a  part.  But 
I  wasn't  called  upon,  and  so  I  made  them  stay  down ;  I  cov 
ered  every  inch  of  myself  with  a  southern  skin.  But  if  any 
one  thinks  that  it  was  easy  or  pleasant,  let  him  try  it — that's 
all !" 

"  When  the  war  began,"  she  went  on,  "  I  remember  how 
much  more  clearly  reasoned  out  were  my  views  of  the  south 
ern  side  of  the  question  than  were  those  of  the  southerners 
themselves  about  here.  They  were  as  warm  as  possible  in 
their  feelings,  of  course,  but  they  hadn't  studied  the  subject 
as  I  had,  got  their  reasons  into  shape ;  so  it  ended  in  their 
borrowing  my  reasons !  But  every  night  through  all  that 
time,  Margaret,  on  my  knees  I  prayed  for  my  own  people, 
and  I  used  to  read  the  accounts  of  the  northern  victories — 
when  I  could  get  them — with  an  inward  shout;  never  once, 
never  once,  had  I  a  doubt  of  the  final  success." 

"  It's  a  curious  story,  isn't  it?"  Margaret  said  to  Winthrop, 
when  she  repeated  to  him  some  of  these  confidences.  "  She 
wished  me  to  tell  you,  she  asked  me  to  do  so ;  she  said  she- 
should  like  to  have  you  understand  her  life." 

"Does  she  expect  me  to  admire  it?"  said  Winthrop,  rath 
er  surprised  himself  to  feel  how  quickly  the  old  heat  could 
rise  in  his  throat  again  when  confronted  with  a  talc  like  this. 
For  the  southern  women,  who  had  everywhere  suffered  so 
much,  given  so  much,  and  lost  their  all,  he  had  nothing  but 
the  tenderest  pity.  But  a  northern  woman  who  had  joined 
their  cause — that  seemed  to  him  apostasy.  That  the  apos 
tasy  had  been  but  pretence  only  made  it  worse. 

"  She  expects  you  to  remember  her  motive  for  it,  after  she 
is  gone,"  Margaret  answered. 

"  Her  motive  can't  make  me  like  it.  Even  in  the  midst 
of  her  mistakes,  however,  she  has  been  a  wonderful  little 
creature.  But  you  say  'after  she  is  gone' — do  you  think 
her  worse,  then  ?  I  thought  she  was  so  much  better." 

"  So  she  is  better.  But  she  will  fail  again ;  at  least  that 
is  what  she  thinks  herself,  and  I  cannot  help  fearing  she  is 
right." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it."     He  seemed  to  have  the 


EAST  ANGELS.  225 

idea  that  she  would  say  more ;  and  he  waited.  But  she  did 
not  speak. 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  have  had  some  further  talk  about 
Garda?"  he  said  at  last,  breaking  the  pause. 

"  Yes." 

"You  would  rather  not  tell  me?" 

"I  will  tell  you  later." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Rutherford  came  into  the  room. 
But  her  nephew  remained  silent  so  long,  his  eyes  resting  ab 
sently  on  Margaret's  dusky  hair  as  she  bent  her  head  over  a 
long  seam  (she  seemed  to  like  long  seams!),  that  at  last  the 
aunt  asked  him  if  he  knew  that  he  was  growing  absent- 
minded. 

"Absent-minded — impossible!  No  one  has  ever  accused 
me  of  that  before.  I  have  always  been  too  present-minded ; 
viciously  so,  they  say." 

"  People  change,"  remarked  Mrs.  Rutherford,  with  dignity. 
"  There  have  been  many  changes  here  lately." 

Her  voice  had  an  undertone  that  suggested  displeasure; 
the  lady  was  indeed  in  the  fixed  condition  of  finding  nothing 
right.  The  state  appeared  to  have  been  caused  by  the  ab 
sences  of  her  niece  at  East  Angels.  The  household  wheels 
had  apparently  moved  on  with  their  usual  smoothness  dur 
ing  that  interval;  Mrs.  Rutherford  herself  had  appeared  to 
be  in  the  enjoyment  of  her  usual  agreeably  weak  health ;  her 
attire  had  been  as  becoming  as  ever,  her  hair  as  artistically 
arranged.  But  in  spite  of  all  this  there  was  the  undertone. 
Nothing  was  as  it  should  be — that  might  have  been  the  gen 
eral  summing  up.  If  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  that  was 
not  comfortable ;  if  she  sat  erect,  that  was  not  comfortable 
either;  there  were  draughts  every  where,  it  was  insupportable 
— the  draughts;  the  floors  were  cold;  they  were  always  cold. 
She  was  convinced  that  the  climate  was  damp;  it  must  be, 
"  with  all  this  water"  about.  Then,  again,  she  was  sure  that 
it  was  "feverish;"  it  must  be,  "  with  all  this  sand."  The 
eyrie  had  become  "  tiresome,"  the  fragrance  of  the  orange 
flowers  "  enervating ;"  as  for  pine  barrens,  she  never  wished 
to  see  a  pine  barren  again. 

These  things  were  not  peevishly  said,  Mrs.  Rutherford's 
well-modulated  voice  was  never  peevish ;  they  were  said  with 

15 


826  EAST  ANGELS. 

a  sort  of  majestic  coldness  by  a  majestic  woman  who  was, 
however,  above  complaints.  She  was  as  handsome  as  ever; 
but  it  was  curious  to  note  how  her  inward  dissatisfactions 
had  deepened  lines  which  before  had  been  scarcely  visible, 
had  caused  her  fine  profile  to  assume  for  the  first  time  a  lit 
tle  of  that  expression  to  which  regular  profiles,  cut  on  the 
majestic  scale,  are  liable  as  age  creeps  on — a  certain  hard, 
immovable  appearance,  as  though  the  features  had  been  cut 
out  of  wood,  as  though  the  changing  feelings,  whatever  they 
might  be,  would  not  be  able  to  affect  their  rigid  line. 

"  She's  missed  you  uncommon, "Celestine  confided  to  Mar 
garet,  when  she  returned  ;  "  nothings  ben  right.  'Most  every 
mornin'  when  she  was  all  dressed  I  sez  to  her,  *  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford,'  sez  I,  '  what's  the  preposition  for  now  ?'  And  there 
never  warn't  any  preposition,  or,  ruther,  there  was  so  many 
we  couldn't  begin  to  manage  'em  !  Mr.  Evert — he's  ben  down 
to  the  Thornes'  a  good  deal,  you  know,  an'  Dr.  Kirby — he 
hasn't  ben  in  at  all.  Even  Mrs.  Carevv's  ben  gone.  -An'  so 
she's  rather  petered  out.  Glad  you're  back,  Miss  Margaret ; 
dear  me  suz  !  yes.  A  person  needn't  be  a  murderer  to  make 
a  house  almighty  uncomfortable  by  just  sheer  grumpiness. 
But  she'll  pick  up  now." 

Celestine  had  been  right  when  she  said  that  the  lady's 
mental  condition  would  improve  now  that  her  niece  had  re 
turned.  Gradually,  as  Margaret's  touch  on  the  helm  brought 
the  household  back  into  the  atmosphere  she  loved,  the  at 
mosphere  of  few  questions  and  no  suggestions,  suggestions 
as  to  what  she  had  "better"  do  (Mrs.  Rutherford  hated  sug 
gestions  as  to  what  she  had  "better"  do),  of  all  her  small 
customs  silently  furthered,  her  little  wishes  remembered  with 
out  the  trouble  of  having  to  express  them,  her  remarks  lis 
tened  to  and  answered,  arid  conversation  (when  she  wished 
for  conversation)  kept  up — all  this  so  quietly  done  that  she 
could  with  case  ignore  that  it  was  anything  especial  to  do, 
maintain  the  position  that  it  was  but  the  usual  way  of  liv 
ing,  that  anything  else  would  have  been  unusual — gradually, 
as  this  congenial  atmosphere  re-established  itself,  Mrs.  Ruth 
erford  recovered  her  geniality,  that  geniality  which  had  been 
so  much  admired.  Her  majestic  remarks  as  to  the  faults  of 
Gracias  and  everything  in  Gracias  became  fewer,  the  under- 


EAST  ANGELS.  227 

note  of  cold  displeasure  in  her  voice  died  away ;  her  profile 
grew  flexible  and  personal  again,  it  was  less  like  that  of  a 
Roman  matron  in  a  triumphal  procession  —  a  procession 
which  has  been  through  a  good  deal  of  wind  and  dust. 

This  happy  revival  of  placidity  at  the  eyrie  (to  which  pos 
sibly  the  reappearance  of  Dr.  Kirby  had  added  something) 
was  sharply  broken  one  morning  by  bad  news  from  East 
Angels.  Mrs.  Thome  was  worse — "sinking"  was  the  term 
used  in  the  note  which  Betty  Carew  had  hastily  scribbled ; 
she  was  anxious  to  sec  Mrs.  Harold. 

It  had  come,  then,  the  end,  and  much  sooner  than  even 
she  herself  had  expected.  She  had  suffered  severely  for 
twenty-four  hours ;  the  suffering  was  over  now,  but  she  had 
not  the  strength  to  rally. 

"  It's  because  she's  always  worked  so  hard — I  can't  help 
thinking  of  it,"  said  Betty,  who  sat  in  the  outer  room,  crying 
(she  had  been  up  all  night,  but  did  not  dream  of  taking  any 
rest);  "she  never  stopped.  We  all  knew  it,  and  yet  some 
how  we  didn't  half  realize  it,  or  try  to  prevent  it ;  and  it's 
too  late  now." 

All  the  Gracias  friends  were  soon  assembled  at  East  An 
gels;  even  Mrs.  Moore,  invalid  though  she  was,  made  the 
little  journey  by  water,  and  was  carried  up  to  the  house  in 
an  arm-chair  by  her  husband  and  old  Pablo.  Recovering,  if 
not  more  strength,  then  at  least  that  renewed  command  of 
speech  which  often  comes  back  for  a  time  just  before  the 
end,  Mrs.  Thome,  late  in  the  afternoon,  opened  her  eyes, 
looked  at  them  all,  and  then,  after  a  moment,  asked  to  be 
left  alone  with  Garda,  Margaret,  and  Evert  Winthrop.  Mar 
garet  thought  that  she  had  spoken  Winthrop's  name  by  mis 
take. 

"She  doesn't  mean  you,  I  think,"  she  said  to  him,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"Yes,  I  mean  Mr.  Winthrop,"  murmured  Mrs.  Thome, 
with  a  faint  shadow  of  her  old  decision. 

Her  Gracias  friends  softly  left  the  room.  Even  Dr.  Kirby, 
after  a  few  whispered  words  with  Winthrop,  followed  them. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  Mrs.  Thornc  signified  that  she 
wished  to  take  Margaret's  hand.  Then,  her  feeble  fingers 
resting  on  it,  "  Garda,"  she  said,  in  her  husky  voice,  "  Mar- 


228  EAST  ANGELS. 

garet — whom  I  trust  entirely — has  promised — to  take  charge 
of  you — for  a  while — after — I  am  gone.  Promise  me — on 
your  side — to  obey  her — to  do  as  she  wishes." 

"Do  not  make  her  promise  that,"  said  Margaret.  "I 
think  she  loves  me ;  that  will  be  enough." 

Garda,  crying  bitterly,  kissed  Margaret,  and  then  sank  on 
her  knees  beside  the  bed,  her  head  against  her  mother's  arm. 
The  sight  of  her  child's  grief  did  not  bring  the  tears  to  Mrs. 
Thome's  eyes  —  already  the  calm  that  precedes  death  had 
taken  possession  of  them  ;  but  it  did  cause  a  struggling  effort 
of  the  poor  harassed  breath  to  give  forth  a  sob.  She  tried 
to  stroke  Garda's  hair,  but  could  not.  "  How  can  I  go — and 
leave  her?"  she  whispered,  looking  piteously  at  Margaret,  and 
then  at  Winthrop,  as  he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "  She 
had — no  one — but  me."  And  again  came  the  painful  sound 
in  the  throat,  though  the  clogged  breast  had  not  the  strength 
to  rise. 

"  If  I  could  only  know,"  she  went  on,  desolately,  to  Mar 
garet,  the  slow  turning  of  the  eyes  betraying  the  approach 
of  that  lethargy  which  was  soon  to  touch  the  muscles  with 
numbness.  "You  have  said — for  a  while;  but  you  did  not 
promise  for  longer.  If  I  could  only  know,  Margaret,  that  she 
would  be  under  your  care  as  long  as  she  is  so  alone  in  the 
world,  then,  perhaps,  it  would  be  easier  to  die." 

These  words,  pronounced  with  difficulty  one  by  one,  sep 
arated  by  the  slow  breaths,  seemed  to  Winthrop  indescriba 
bly  affecting.  It  was  the  last  earthly  effort  of  mother-love. 

Margaret  hesitated.  It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  she 
was  silent.  But  Evert  took  that  moment  to  come  forward, 
he  came  to  the  side  of  the  bed  where  she  was  standing. 
"Give  me  your  permission,  Mrs.  Thome,"  he  said  to  the  dy 
ing  woman.  "Trust  me,  and  I  will  fill  the  trust.  Garda 
shall  have  every  care,  my  aunt  shall  take  charge  of  her." 
He  was  indignant  with  Margaret  for  hesitating. 

But  Margaret  hesitated  no  longer.  "  I  think  I  am  the 
better  person,"  she  interposed,  gently.  Then,  bending  for 
ward,  she  said,  with  distinctness,  "  Mrs.  Thorn e,  Garda  shall 
live  with  me,  or  near  me  under  my  charge,  as  long  as  she  is 
so  young  and  alone,  as  long  as  she  needs  my  care.  You 
have  given  me  a  great  trust,  I  hereby  accept  it;  and  I  will 


EAST  ANGELS.  229 

keep  it  with  all  the  faithfulness  I  can."     Her  voice  took  on 
an  almost  solemn  tone  as  the  last  words  were  spoken. 

Winthrop,  glancing-  at  her  as  she  bent  forward  beside  him, 
perceived  that  though  she  was  holding  herself  in  strict  con 
trol,  she  was  moved  by  some  deep  emotion  ;  he  could  feel 
that  she  was  trembling.  Again,  even  then  and  there,  he  gave 
an  instant  to  the  same  conjecture  which  had  occupied  his 
thoughts  before.  Why  should  she  show  emotion  ?  why 
should  her  voice  take  on  that  tone?  She  was  not  excitable; 
he  had  had  occasion  to  know  that  she  was  not  afraid  of 
death,  she  had  stood  beside  too  many  death-beds  in  her  vis 
its  among  the  poor  (not  that  he  admired  her  philanthropy) ; 
it  could  "not  be  that  she  had  suddenly  become  so  fond  of 
poor  Mrs.  Thornc.  But  he  left  his  'conjectures  unsolved. 
A  faint  but  beautiful  smile  was  passing  strangely  over  the 
mother's  face,  strangely,  because  no  feature  stirred  or  changed 
— she  was  beyond  that — and  yet  the  smile  was  there ;  the 
eyes  became  so  transfigured  that  the  two  who  were  watching 
stood  awe-struck;  for  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  beholding 
something,  just  behind  or  above  them,  which  was  invisible 
to  them,  something  which  had  lifted  from  her  all  the  pains 
and  cares  of  her  earthly  life,  and  set  her  free.  For  some 
moments  longer  the  beautiful  radiance  shone  there.  Then 
the  light  departed,  and  death  alone  was  left,  though  the  eyes 
retained  a  consciousness.  They  seemed  to  try  to  turn  to 
Garda,  who  was  still  kneeling  with  her  head  hidden  against 
her  mother's  shoulder. 

"Take  her  in  your  arms,  Garda,"  whispered  Margaret; 
"  your  face  is  the  last  she  wishes  to  see." 

Winthrop  had  summoned  Dr.  Kirby  ;  the  other  friends 
came  softly  in.  For  twenty  minutes  more  the  slow  breaths 
came  and  went,  but  with  longer  and  longer  intervals  between. 
Garda,  lying  beside  her  mother,  held  her  in  her  arms,  and 
the  dying  woman's  fixed  eyes  rested  on  her  child's  for  some 
time;  then  consciousness  faded,  the  lids  drooped.  Garda 
put  her  warm  cheek  against  the  small  white  face,  and,  thus 
embraced,  the  mother's  earthly  life  ebbed  away,  while  in  the 
still  room  ascended,  in  the  voice  of  the  clergyman,  the  last 
prayer — "  O  Almighty  God,  with  whom  do  live  the  spirits 
of  rnen  after  thev  are  delivered  from  their  earthly  prisons, 


230  EAST  ANGELS. 

we  humbly  commend  to  Thee  the  soul  of  tins  thy  servant, 
our  dear  sister — "  Onr  dear  sister;  they  were  all  there,  her 
Gracias  friends — Mrs.  Kirby,  Mrs.  Carew,  Mrs.  Moore,  Mad 
am  Giron,  Madam  Ruiz — and  they  all  wept  for  her  as  though 
she  had  been  a  sister  indeed.  In  the  hall  outside,  at  the 
open  door,  stood  handsome  Manuel,  not  ashamed  of  his  tears ; 
and  near  him,  more  devout  as  well  as  more  self-controlled, 
knelt  Torres,  reverently  waiting,  with  head  turned  away,  for 
the  end. 

Dr.  Kirby  laid  the  little  hand  he  had  been  holding,  down 
upon  the  coverlet.  "  She  has  gone,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
And,  with  a  visible  effort  to  control  his  features,  he  passed 
round  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  and  lifting  Garda  tender 
ly,  tried  to  draw  her  away.  But  Garda  clung  to  the  dead, 
and  cried  so  heart-brokenly  that  all  the  women,  with  fresh 
tears  starting  at  the  desolate  sound — that  sound  of  audible 
sobbing  which  first  tells  those  outside  the  still  room  that  the 
blow  has  fallen — all  the  women  came  one  by  one  and  tried 
to  comfort  her.  But  it  was  not  until  Margaret  Harold  took 
her  in  her  arms  that  she  was  at  all  quieted. 

"  Come  with  me,  Garda,"  she  said.  "  You  arc  not  leaving 
your  mother  alone,  your  mother  is  not  here ;  she  has  gone 
home  to  God.  Come  with  me;  remember  she  wished  it." 
And  Garda  yielded. 

They  buried  Mrs.  Thome  in  the  family  burying-ground  at 
East  Angels  (the  one  of  which  she  had  spoken),  her  daughter 
and  her  friends  following,  on  foot,  the  coffin,  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  eight  of  their  former  slaves.  Thus  the  little 
procession  crossed  the  Levels  to  the  secluded  enclosure  at  the 
far  end,  Mr.  Moore  in  his  surplice  leading  the  way.  A  high 
hedge  of  cedar-trees  set  closely  together  like  a  wall,  their 
dark  branches  sweeping  the  ground,  encircled  the  place ; 
across  the  narrow  opening  which  had  been  left  for  entrance, 
was  a  low  paling-gate.  Within,  ranged  in  a  circle,  were  a 
number  of  oblong  coquina  tombs,  broad  and  low,  without 
inscriptions ;  here  slept  all  the  Dueros,  the  first  Englishman, 
Edgar  Thome,  and  the  few  American-born  Thornes  who  had 
succeeded  him.  Into  the  presence  of  this  company  was 
now  borne  Melissa  Whiting. 

Her  coffin  was  covered  with  the  beautiful  flowers  of  the 


EAST  ANGELS  23i 

South ;  but  within,  hidden  on  her  breast,  there  was  a  faded 
spray  of  arbntns,  the  last  "May-flowers"  which  had  been 
sent  to  her,  years  before,  from  her  northern  home ;  she  had 
o-iven  them  to  Margaret,  and  asked  her,  when  the  time  came, 
to  place  them  there.  Thus  was  she  lowered  to  her  rest,  All 
who  were  present  came  one  by  one,  according  to  Gracias  cus 
tom,  to  cast  into  the  deep  grave  the  handful  of  white  sand 
which,  in  Florida,  represents  the  "earth  to  earth  —that 
sound  which,  soft  though  it  be,  breaks  the  heart.  Garda, 
shiverino-,  cluno-  to  Margaret  and  hid  her  face.  Ihen  roso 
Mr.  Moore's  voice  among  them:  "I  heard  a  voice  from 
heaven  saying  unto  me,  '  Write.  From  henceforth  blessed 
arc  the  dead— for  they  rest  from  their  labors.' " 

Beautiful  words,  unmeaning  to  the  young  and  happy, 
more  and  more  do  they  convey  to  many  of  us  a  dear  com 
fort,  for  ourselves  as  well  as  for  those  already  gone— blessed 
are  the  dead,  for  they  rest  from  their  labors.  For  they  rest. 

That  evening  the  negroes  of  the  neighborhood  assembled 
at  East  Angels^  and,  standing  outside  in  the  darkness,  under 
the  windows,  sang  their  own  funeral  hymn  ;  their  voices  rose 
with  sweetness  in  the  wildly  plaintive  minor  strains ;  then 
grew  softer  and  softer,  as,  still  singing  sweetly,  they  marched 

quietly  awav. 

And  so  night  closed  down  over  the  old  southern  house. 
But  the  little  mother,  who  had  toiled  there  so  long,  was 
gone.  She  was  away  in  that  far  country  where  we  hope 
we  shall  no  more  remember  the  cares  and  pain,  the  mysteries 
and  bitter  griefs  of  this. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE  next  day  it  was  arranged  that  Garda  should,  for  the 
present,  remain  where  she  was ;  she  wished  to  do  this,  and 
Mrs.  Carew,  unselfish  always,  had  offered  to  close  her  own 
house  (so  far  as  Cynthy  and  Pompcy  would  permit),  and 
stay  with  her  for  a  while. 

It  was  known  now  that  Mrs.  Harold  was  to  have  charge 
of  Garda.  The  Gracias  friends  were  grieved  by  this  lid- 


232  EAST  ANGELS. 

ings;  they  had  supposed  that  Garda  would  be  left  to  them. 
But  they  all  liked  Margaret,  and  when,  a  little  later,  they 
learned  that  she  had  asked  Dr.  Kirby  to  fill  the  office  of 
guardian,  they  welcomed  with  gladness  this  guarantee  that 
they  were  not  to  be  entirely  separated  from  the  child  whom 
they  had  known  and  loved  from  her  birth,  that  one  of  them 
was  to  have  the  right,  in  some  degree,  to  direct  her  course, 
and  watch  over  her.  These  unworldly  people,  these  secluded 
people,  with  their  innocently  proud,  calm  belief  in  their  own 
importance,  never  once  thought  of  its  being  possibly  an  ad 
vantage  to  Garda,  this  opportunity  to  leave  Gracias-a-Dios, 
to  have  further  instruction,  to  see  something  of  the  world. 
They  could  not  consider  it  an  advantage  to  leave  Gracias-a- 
Dios,  and  "further  instruction,"  which,  of  course,  meant 
northern  instruction,  they  did  not  approve ;  as  for  "  the 
world,"  very  little  confidence  had  they  in  any  world  so  re 
mote  from  their  own.  That,  indeed,  was  the  Gracias  idea 
of  New  York  —  "remote."  Nor  did  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Harold  had  a  fortune  (a  very  large  one  it  would  have  seem 
ed  to  them  had  they  known  its  amount)  make  any  especial 
impression.  They  would  each  and  all  have  welcomed  Garda 
to  their  own  homes,  would  have  freely  given  her  a  daugh 
ter's  share  in  everything  they  possessed ;  that,  from  a  world 
ly  point  of  view,  these  homes  were  but  poor  ones,  and  a 
daughter's  share  in  incomes  which  were  in  themselves  so 
small  and  uncertain,  a  very  limited  possession — these  con 
siderations  did  not  enter  much  into  their  thoughts.  Their 
idea  was  that  for  a  fatherless,  motherless  girl,  love  was  the 
great  thing;  and  of  love  they  had  an  abundance. 

Before  he  had  had  his  interview  with  Margaret,  before  he 
knew  of  her  intention  to  ask  him  to  be  guardian,  Dr.  Kirby 
had  gone  about  silent;  with  a  high  color;  portentous. 
Much  as  he  admired  Mrs.  Rutherford,  he  did  not  present 
himself  at  the  eyrie;  his  mirror  told  him  that  he  had  not 
the  proper  expression.  But  Margaret  did  not  delay  ;  on  the 
third  day  she  made  her  request ;  and  then  the  Doctor  went 
home  stepping  with  all  his  old  trimness,  his  toes  well  turned 
out,  his  head  erect. 

"It's  very  fortunate,  rna"  (the  Doctor's  a  in  this  word 
had  a  sound  between  that  of  a  in  "  mare"  and  in  "May"), 


EAST  ANGELS.  233 

"  that  she  has  asked  me,"  he  said  to  his  mother ;  "  I  doubt 
whether  I  could  have  kept  silence  otherwise.  I  admire  Mrs. 
Rutherford  highly,  as  you  know  ;  she  is  a  lady  of  the  finest 
bearing  and  presence.  And  I  admire  Mrs.  Harold  too.  But 
if  they  had  attempted  —  if  Mrs.  Harold  had  attempted  to 
take  Garda  off  to  the  North,  and  keep  her  there,  without 
any  link,  any  regularly  established  communication  with  us, 
I  fear  "  (the  Doctor's  face  had  grown  red  again) — "  I  fear, 
ma,  I  should  have  balked ;  I  should  have  just  set  my  feet 
together,  put  down  my  head,  and— raised  the  devil  behind !" 

"  Why,  my  son,  what  language  !"  said  his  mother,  sur 
prised ;  though  she  felt,  too,  the  force  of  his  comparison, 
as  she  lived  in  the  country  of  the  mule. 

"Excuse  me,  ma;  I  am  excited,  or  rather  I  have  been. 
But  Garda  is  one  of  us,  you  know,  and  we  could  not,  /could 
not,  with  a  clear  conscience  allow  them  to  separate  her  from 
us  entirely,  hurry  her  off  into  a  society  of  which  we  know 
little  or  nothing,  save  that  it  is  totally  different  from  our 
own — modern — mercantile — hurrying"  (the  Doctor  was  evi 
dently  growing  excited  again)—"  all  that  we  most  dislike. 
You  are  probably  thinking  that  there  are  Mrs.  Rutherford, 
Mrs.  Harold,  yes,  and  Mr.  Winthrop  too  (if  he  would  only 
dress  himself  more  as  a  gentleman  should),  to  answer  for  it,  ' 
to  serve  as  specimens.  Those  charming  ladies  would  grace, 
I  admit,  any  society— any  society  in  the  world !  But  I  am 
convinced  that  they  are  riot  specimens,  they  are  exceptions; 
I  am  convinced  that  society  at  the  North  is  a  very  different 
affair.  And,  besides,  Garda  belongs  here.  Her  ancestors  have 
been  men  of  distinction, — among  the  most  distinguished, 
indeed,  of  this  whole  coast;  I  may  be  mistaken,  of^course, 
ma;  I  may  be  too  severe;  but  still  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  at  the  North  this  would  fall  on  ignorant  ears ;  that  the 
people  there  are  too — too  ignorant  of  such  matters  to  ap 
preciate  them." 

"  I  reckon  you  are  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Kirby.  "  Still, 
Reginald,  we  must  not  forget  that  it  was  the  mother's  own 
wish  that  Mrs.  Harold  should  take  charge  of  Garda." 

"  Yes,  ma,  I  know.  Poor  little  Mistress  Thome,  to  who-m 
I  was  most  sincerely  attached" — here  the  Doctor  paused  to 
give  a  vigorous  cough — "was,  we  must  remember,  a  New- 


234  EAST  ANGELS. 

Englander  by  birth,  after  all ;  and  in  spite  of  her  efforts 
(most  praiseworthy  they  were  too),  she  never  quite  outgrew 
that  fact.  It  couldn't,  therefore,  be  expected  that  she  should 
comprehend  fully  the  great  advantages  (even  taking  merely 
the  worldly  view  of  it)  of  having  her  daughter  continue  to 
live  here — here  where  such  a  descent  is  acknowledged,  and 
proper  honor  paid  to  ancestors  of  distinction." 

"  True,  my  son,"  said  the  neat  little  old  lady,  knitting  on. 
"  But  still  a  mother  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the  '  descent !' 
I'm  not  sure  that  she  hasn't  even  more  than  an  ancestor — 
ahem." 

On  the  whole,  as  matters  were  now  arranged,  with  Dr. 
Kirby  appointed  as  guardian,  it  could  be  said  that  Gracias 
accepted  the  new  order  of  things  regarding  Garcia' s  future. 
Not  thankfully  or  gratefully,  not  with  inward  relief;  it  was 
simply  an  acquiescence.  They  felt,  too,  that  their  acquies 
cence  was  magnanimous. 

The  only  discordant  element  was  Mrs.  Rutherford.  And 
she  was  very  discordant  indeed.  But  as  she  confined  the 
expression  of  her  feelings  to  her  niece,  the  note  of  disso 
nance  did  not  reach  the  others. 

"  It's  beyond  belief,"  she  said.  "  What  possible  claim 
'have  these  Thornes  upon  you  ?  The  idea  of  her  having  tried 
to  saddle  you  with  that  daughter  of  hers !  She  took  ad 
vantage  of  yon,  of  course,  and  of  the  situation ;  I  am  really 
indignant  for  you,  and  feel  that  I  ought  to  come  to  your  res 
cue;  I  advise  you  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  can 
be  friendly,  of  course,  while  we  are  here ;  but,  afterwards, 
let  it  all  drop." 

"  I  can  hardly  do  that  when  I  have  promised,  Aunt 
Katrina,"  answered  Margaret.  And  she  answered  in  the 
same  way  many  times. 

For  Mrs.  Rutherford  could  make  a  very  dexterous  use  of 
the  weapon  of  iteration.  She  was  seldom  betrayed  into  a 
fretful  tone,  there  was  always  a  fair  show  of  reason  in  what 
she  said  (its  purely  personal  foundation  she  was  skilful  in 
concealing) ;  her  best  thrust  was  to  be  so  warmly  on  the 
side  of  the  person  she  was  trying  to  lead,  to  be  so  u  sur 
prised  "  for  him,  and  "  angry  "  for  him  (as  against  others), 
that  he  was  led  at  last  to  be  "surprised"  and  "angry"  him- 


EAST  ANGELS.  235 

self,  though  in  the  beginning  he  might  have  had  no  such 
idea.  By  these  well -in  an  aged  reiterations  she  had  gained 
her  point  many  times  during  honest  Peter's  lifetime ;  he 
never  failed  to  be  touched  when  he  saw  how  warmly  she  was 
taking  up  "his  side,"  though  up  to  that  moment,  perhaps, 
he  had  not  been  aware  that  he  had  a  "  side "  on  that  par 
ticular  subject,  or  that  anybody  was  on  the  other. 

But  if  she  gained  her  point  with  Peter,  she  did  not  gain 
it  with  Peter's  niece. 

"  Garda,  I  hope,  will  not  be  a  trouble  to  yon,  Aunt  Ka- 
trina.  For  the  present  she  is  to  remain  at  East  Angels; 
when  we  go  north,  I  shall  place  her  with  Madame  Martel." 

"  It's  really  pitiful  to  think  how  unhappy  she  will  be," 
said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  the  next  day,  shaking  her  head  prophet 
ically.  "Poor  child — poor  little  southern  flower — to  take 
her  away  from  this  lovely  climate,  and  force  her  to  live  at 
the  cold  North — to  take  her  away  from  a  real  home,  where 
they  all  love  her,  and  put  her  with  Madame  Martel!  You 
must  have  a  far  sterner  nature  than  /  have,  Margaret,  to  be 
able  to  do  it," 

To  this  Margaret  made  no  answer. 

"I  really  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  you  rate  your  own 
influence  over  that  of  everybody  else,"  remarked  Mrs.  Ruth 
erford  on  another  occasion.  She  spoke  impersonally,  as 
though  it  were  simply  a  curiosity  she  felt.  "Have  you  had 
some  experience  in  the  management  of  young  girls  that  I 
know  nothing  about?" 

"  No,"  replied  Margaret. 

"  Yet  you  undertake  it  without  hesitation  !  You  have 
more  confidence  in  your  powers  than  I  should  have  in  mine, 
I  confess.  How  do  you  know  what  she  may  do  ?  Depend 
upon  it,  she  won't  have  our  ideas  at  all.  You  are  a  qniet 
sort  of  person,  but  she  may  be  quite  the  reverse,  and  then 
what  a  prospect!  She  will  be  talked  about,  such  girls  al 
ways  are ;  she  may  even  get  into  the  papers." 

"  Not  for  a  year  or  two  yet,  I  think,"  answered  Margaret, 
smiling. 

The  next  day,  "  It  would  be  so  easy  to  do  it  now,"  ob 
served  the  handsome  aunt ;  "  it  almost  seems  like  a  tempting 
of  Providence  to  neglect  such  an  opportunity."  (Mrs.  Ruth- 


236  EAST  ANGELS. 

crford  always  lived  on  intimate  terms  with  Providence.) 
"  You  could  keep  up  your  interest  in  her,  send  her  down 
books,  and  even  a  governess  for  six  months  or  so,  if  you 
wished  to  be  very  punctilious;  all  the  people  here  want  Gar- 
da  to  stay — they  cannot  bear  to  give  her  up;  you  would  be 
doing  them  a  kindness  by  yielding.  They  are  really  fond  of 
her,  and  she  is  fond  of  them ;  of  course  you  can't  pretend 
that  she  cares  for  you  in  that  way  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  I  don't  pretend,"  replied  Margaret. 

"  You  carry  her  off  without  it!" 

The  next  advance  was  on  another  lino.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  when  she  is  through  school,  Margaret  ?"  demand 
ed  the  inquirer,  with  interested  amiability.  "  She'll  have  to 
see  something,  go  somewhere — you  can't  shut  her  up;  and 
who  is  going  to  chaperon  her?  I  am  an  invalid,  you  know, 
and  you  yourself  are  much  too  young.  You  must  remem 
ber,  my  dear,  that  you  are  a  young  and  pretty  woman." 
(Aunt  Katrina  had  evidently  been  driven  to  her  best  shot.) 

But  though  this,  or  a  similar  remark,  would  have  been  cer 
tain  to  bring  down  Peter,  and  place  him  just  where  his  wife 
wished  him  to  be,  it  failed  to  bring  down  Peter's  niece. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  saw  this.  And  concluded  as  follows: 
"However,  it  doesn't  make  much  difference;  with  the  kind 
of  beauty  Garda  Thorne  has,  no  one  would  look  at  you,  you 
might  be  any  age;  she  has  the  sort  of  face  that  simply  ex 
tinguishes  every  one  else." 

"  Having  no  radiance  of  my  own  to  look  after,  I  can  see 
her  all  the  better,  then,"  replied  Margaret.  "  She'll  be  the 
lighted  Bank,  and  I  the  policeman  with  the  dark  lantern." 

Mrs.  Rutherford  did  not  like  this  answer,  she  thought  it 
flippant.  It  was  true,  however,  that  Margaret  was  very  sel 
dom  flippant. 

"  It  does  seem  to  me  so  weak  to  keep  an  extorted  prom 
ise,"  she  began  another  day.  "  I  suppose  you  won't  deny 
that  it  was  extorted  ?" 

"  It  was  very  much  wished  for." 

"  And  you  gave  it  unwillingly." 

"Not  unwillingly,  Aunt  Katrina." 

"Reluctantly,  then." 

"  Yes,  I  was  reluctant." 


EAST  ANGELS.  237 

'"You  were  reluctant,"  repeated  Mrs.  Ruth  erf  ord,  with  tri 
umph.  "  Of  course  I  knew  you  must  be.  But  whatever  pos 
sessed  you  to  do  it,  Margaret — induced  you  to  consent,  ex 
tortion  or  no  extortion — that  passes  me !" 

Margaret  gave  no  explanation.  So  the  aunt  attempted 
one.  "  It  almost  seems  as  though  you  were  influenced  by 
something  /  am  ignorant  of,"  she  went  on,  making  a  little 
gesture  of  withdrawal  with  her  hand,  as  if  she  found  herself 
on  the  threshold  of  mysterious  regions  of  double  motive  into 
which  she  should  prefer  not  to  penetrate. 

This  was  a  random  ball.  But  Margaret's  fair  face  showed 
a  sudden  color,  though  the  aunt's  eyes  did  not  detect  it. 
"  She  is  alone,  and  very  young,  Aunt  Katrina ;  I  have  prom 
ised,  and  I  must  keep  my  promise.  But  I  shall  do  my  best 
to  prevent  it  from  disturbing  you,  with  me  you  will  always 
be  first;  this  is  all  1  can  say,' and  I  do  not  think  there  is  any 
use  in  talking  about  it  more."  She  had  risen  as  she  said 
these  words,  and  now  she  left  the  room. 

In  addition  to  her  niece's  obstinacy,  this  lady  had  now  to 
bear  the  discovery  that  her  nephew  Evert  did  not  share  her 
views  respecting  Garda  Thome — views  which  seemed  to  her 
the  only  proper  and  natural  ones;  he  not  only  thought  that 
Mrs.  Harold  should  keep  her  promise,  but  he  even  went  fur 
ther  than  she  did  in  his  ideas  as  to  what  that  promise  in 
cluded.  "She  ought  to  keep  Garda  with  her,  and  not  put 
her  off  at  Madame  Martel's,"  he  said. 

"  I  see  that  /  am  to  be  quite  superseded,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  in  a  pleasant  voice,  smoothing  her  handkerchief, 
however,  with  a  sort  of  manner  which  seemed  to  indicate 
that  she  might  yet  be  driven  to  a  use — lachrymose — of  that 
delicate  fabric. 

"My  dear  aunt,  what  can  you  be  thinking  of?"  said  Win- 
throp.  "  Nobody  is  going  to  supersede  you." 

"But  how  am  I  like  the  idea  of  sharing  you  with  a  stran 
ger,  Evert?"  Her  tone  continued  affectionate;  she  seldom 
came  as  far  as  ill  temper  with  her  nephew ;  she  seldom,  in 
deed,  came  as  far  as  ill  temper  with  any  man,  a  coat  seemed 
to  have  a  soothing  effect  upon  her. 

"  There's  no  sharing,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  Winthrop 
answered,  "/have  nothing  to  do  with  Garda;  it's  Margaret." 


238  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Margaret.  And  very  obstinate,  too,  has  she 
been  about  it.  Now,  if  the  girl  had  been  left  to  me,"  pur 
sued  the  lady,  in  a  reasonable  way,  "  there  would  have  been 
some  sense  in  it.  I  have  had  experience,  and  /  should  know 
what  to  do.  I  should  pick  out  an  excellent  governess,  and 
send  her  down  here  with  all  the  books  necessary — perhaps 
even  a  piano,"  she  added,  largely  ;  "  in  that  way  I  should  keep 
watch  of  the  child's  education.  But  I  should  never  have 
planned  to  take  her  away  from  her  home  and  all  her  friends ; 
that  would  seem  to  me  cruelty.  My  idea  would  have  been, 
and  still  is,  that  she  should  live  here,  say  with  the  Kirbys ; 
then  she  would  have  the  climate  and  life  which  she  always 
has  had,  to  which  she  is  accustomed ;  and  in  time  probably 
she  would  marry  either  that  young  Torres,  or  Manuel  Ruiz, 
both  quite  suitable  matches  for  her.  But  what  could  she  do 
in  our  society,  if  Margaret  should  persist,  later,  in  taking  her 
into  it?  It  would  be  quite  pitiable,  she  would  be  so  com 
pletely  out  of  her  element,  poor  little  thing !" 

"  So  beautiful  a  girl  is  apt  to  be  in  her  element  wherever 
she  is,  isn't  she?"  remarked  Winthrop. 

" Is  it  possible,  Evert,  that  vou  really  admire  her?" 

"  I  admire  her  greatly." 

The  tears  rose  in  Mrs.  Rutherford's  eyes  at  this  statement. 
They  were  only  tears  of  vexation,  but  the  nephew  did  not 
know  that ;  he  came  and  stood  beside  her. 

She  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.  "  If  you 
should  ever  marry  that  girl,  Evert,  my  heart  would  be  bro 
ken  !"  she  lamented  from  behind  it.  "  She  isn't  at  all  the 
person  for  you  to  marry." 

Winthrop  burst  into  a  laugh.  "  I'm  not  at  all  the  person 
for  her  to  marry.  Have  you  forgotten,  Aunt  Katrina,  that  I 
am  thirty-five,  and  she — barely  sixteen?" 

"Age  doesn't  make  any  difference,"  answered  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford,  still  tearful.  "And  you  arc  very  rich,  Evert." 

"  Garda  Thome  doesn't  care  in  the  least  about  money,"  re 
sponded  Winthrop,  shortly,  turning  away. 

"  She  ought  to,  then,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Rutherford,  drying 
her  eyes  with  a  soft  pressure  of  the  handkerchief,  so  that  the 
lids  should  not  be  reddened.  "  In  fact,  that  is  another  of 
her  lacks ;  she  seems  to  have  no  objection  to  imposing  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  239 

self  upon  Margaret  in  a  pecuniary  way  as  well  as  in  others. 
She  has  nothing,  there  isn't  literally  a  cent  of  income,  Betty 
Carew  tells  me;  only  a  pile  of  the  most  extraordinarily 
darned  old  clothes  and  house-linen,  a  decayed  orange  grove, 
and  two  obstinate  old  negro  servants,  who  don't  really  belong 
to  anybody,  and  wouldn't  obey  them  if  they  did.  That  you 
should  buy  the  place,  that  has  been  their  one  hope ;  it  was 
very  clever  of  them  to  give  you  the  idea." 

"  Garda  didn't  give  it,  I  wanted  the  place  as  soon  as  I  saw 
it.  She  is  ignorant  about  money ;  most  girls  of  sixteen  are. 
But  what  is  it  that  really  vexes  you  so  much  in  this  affair, 
Aunt  Katrina?  I  am  sure  there  is  something." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Rutherford,  with  dignity. 
"But  'vexes'  is  not  the  word,  Evert.  It  is  a  deeper  feel 
ing."  She  had  put  away  her  handkerchief,  and  now  sat  ma 
jestically  in  her  chair,  her  white  hands  extended  on  its  cush 
ioned  arms.  "Hurt  is  the  word;  I  am  hurt  about  Marga 
ret.  Here  I  have  done  everything  in  the  world  for  her, 
opened  my  home  and  my  heart  to  her,  in  spite  of  all ;  and 
now  she  deserts  me  for  a  totally  insignificant  person,  a 
stranger." 

"Margaret  has  always  been  very  devoted  to  you,  and  lam 
sure  she  will  continue  to  be — she  is  conscientious  in  such 
things — no  matter  what  other  responsibilities  she  may  as 
sume,"  said  Winthrop,  with  warmth. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  noticed  this  warmth  (Winthrop  noticed 
it  too);  but,  for  the  moment,  she  let  it  pass.  "That  is  just 
it — other  responsibilities,"  she  answered;  "but  why  should 
she  assume  any  ?  Before  she  promised  to  give  that  girl  a 
home,  she  should  have  remembered  that  it  was  my  home. 
Before  she  promised  to  take  charge  of  her,  she  should  have 
remembered  that  she  had  other  things  in  charge.  I  am  an 
invalid,  I  require  (and  most  properly)  a  great  deal  of  her 
care ;  not  to  give  it,  or  to  give  it  partially,  would  be,  after  all 
I  have  done  for  her,  most  ungrateful ;  she  should  have  re 
membered  that  she  was  not  free — free,  that  is,  to  make  en 
gagements  of  that  sort." 

Winthrop  had  several  times  before  in  his  life  come  face 
to  face  with  the  evidence  that  his  handsome,  agreeable  aunt 
was  selfish.  lie  was  now  face  to  face  with  it  aijain. 


240  EAST  ANGELS. 

"As  regards  what  you  say  about  a  home,  Aunt  Katrina, 
Margaret  could  at  any  time  have  one  of  her  own,  if  she 
pleased,"  he  answered ;  "  her  income  fully  permits  it." 

Mrs.  Rutherford  now  gave  way  to  tears  that  were  genuine. 
"  It's  the  first  time,  Evert,  I've  known  you  to  take  her  part 
against  me,"  she  answered,  from  behind  her  shielding  hand 
kerchief. 

Winthrop  recalled  this  speech  later — after  he  had  made 
his  peace  with  his  afflicted  relative;  it  was  the  first  time.  He 
thought  about  it  for  a  moment  or  two — that  he  should  have 
been  driven  to  defend  Lanse's  wife.  But  that  was  it,  he  had 
been  driven.  "She  was  so  confoundedly  unjnst,"  he  said  to 
himself,  thinking  of  his  aunt.  He  knew  that  lie  had  a  great 
taste  for  justice. 

A  few  days  after  this  lie  came  to  the  eyrie  one  morning 
at  an  hour  much  earlier  than  his  accustomed  one;  he  sent 
Celestine  to  ask  Mrs.  Harold  to  come  for  a  moment  to  the 
north  piazza,  the  one  most  remote  from  Mrs.  Rutherford's 
rooms.  Margaret  joined  him  there  immediately  ;  her  face 
wore  an  anxious  expression. 

"I  see  you  think  I  bring  bad  news — sending  for  you  in 
this  mysterious  way,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  It  isn't  bad  at  all ; 
under  the  circumstances  I  call  it  very  good,  the  best  thing 
that  could  have  happened.  Mr.  Moore  has  had  a  letter ;  Lu- 
cian  Spenser  was  married  last  week.  Something  sudden,  I 
presume ;  probably  it  was  that  that  took  him  north." 

Margaret's  eyes  met  his  with  what  he  called  their  mute 
expression.  He  had  never  been  able  to  interpret  it,  he  could 
not  now. 

"  It  hasn't,  of  course,  the  least  interest  for  us,  except  as  it 
may  touch  Garda,"  he  went  on.  "  I  don't  apprehend  any 
thing  serious;  still,  as  we  are  the  only  persons  who  have 
known  her  little  secret — this  fancy  she  has  had — perhaps  it 
would  be  better  if  one  of  us  should  go  down  to  East  Angels 
and  tell  her  before  any  one  else  can  get  there — don't  you 
think  so?  And  will  you  go?  or  shall  I?" 

"  You,"  Margaret  answered. 

"I  don't  often  ask  questions,  you  must  give  me  that  cred 
it,"  lie  said,  looking  at  her.  "But  I  should  really  like  to 
know  upon  what  grounds  you  decide  so  quickly." 


EAST  ANGELS.  241 

"  Tlie  grounds  arc  unimportant.  But  I  am  sure  you  arc 
tlic  one  to  go." 

Winthrop,  on  the  whole,  wished  to  go.  He  now  found 
himself  telling  his  reasons.  "I  can  go  immediately,  that  is 
one  thing;  you  would  have  to  speak  to  Aunt  Katrina,  make 
arrangements,  and  that  would  take  time.  Then  I  think  that 
Garda  has  probably  talked  more  freely  to  me  about  that 
youth  than  she  has  to  you  ;  it's  a  little  odd  that  she  should, 
but  I  think  she  has." 

"  It's  very  possible." 

"  On  that  account  it  would  come  in  more  naturally,  per 
haps,  if  she  should  hear  it  first  from  me." 

Again  Margaret  assented. 

"  Arid  then  it  won't  make  her  think  it's  important,  my 
stopping  there  as  I  pass ;  your  going  would  have  another 
look.  I'm  a  little  curious  to  see  how  she  will  take  it,"  he 
added. 

"  That  is  your  real  reason,  I  think,"  said  Margaret. 

"  She  has  just  lost  her  mother,"  he  went  on,  without  tak 
ing  up  this  remark.  "Perhaps  the  real  sorrow  may  make 
her  forget  the  fictitious  one ;  I  am  sure  I  hope  so.  I  will  go 
down,  then.  But  in  case  I  am  mistaken,  in  case  she  should 
continue  to — fancy  herself  in  earnest,  shall  I  come  back  and 
tell  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  she  is  in  my  charge.  But  if  I  should  have 
to  go  down  there  myself,  Aunt  Katrina  would  take  it  rather 
ill,  I  am  afraid, — that  is  just  now." 

"You  are  very  good  to  Aunt  Katrina,  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  I  appreciate  it;  I  am  afraid  she  has  rather  a  way  of 
treating  you  as  an  appendage  to  herself,  not  as  an  indepen 
dent  personage." 

"That  is  all  I  am — an  appendage,"  said  Margaret.  She 
paused.  "  Feeling  as  she  does,"  she  continued,  "  she  yet  al 
lows  me  to  stay  with  her.  That  has  been  a  great  deal  to 


Winthrop's  face  changed  a  little;  up  to  this  time  his  ex 
pression  had  been  almost  warmly  kind.  "  Feeling  as  she 
does !"  Yes,  Aunt  Katrina  might  well  feel  as  she  did,  with 
her  favorite  nephew,  her  almost  son,  wandering  about  the 
world  (this  was  one  of  the  aunt's  expressions,  he  used  it  in 

16 


242  EAST  ANGELS. 

his  thoughts  unconsciously),  without  a  home,  because  he  had 
a  wife  so  Pharisaic,  so  icily  unforgiving. 

**  You  make  too  much  of  it,"  he  answered,  coldly  ;  "  the 
obligation  is  by  no  means  all  on  one  side."  Then  he  finish 
ed  what  he  had  begun  to  say  before  she  made  her  remark. 
"  I  had  occasion  to  remind  my  aunt,  only  the  other  day,  that 
if  at  any  time  you  should  wish  to  have  a  home  of  your  own, 
she  ought  not  to  object.  She  would  miss  you  greatly,  of 
course  ;  I,  however — and  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity 
of  saying  it — should  consider  such  a  wish  very  natural,  and 
I  should  be  happy  to  do  everything  possible  towards  fur 
thering  it." 

"  I  have  no  such  wish ;  but  perhaps  you  think — perhaps 
you  prefer  that  I  should  leave  Mrs.  Rutherford  ?"  She  had 
turned  away,  he  could  not  see  the  expression  of  face  that  ac 
companied  the  words. 

"  It  would  be  impossible  that  I  should  prefer  such  a  thing ; 
I  don't  think  you  can  be  sincere  in  saying  it,"  responded 
Winthrop,  with  a  tinge  of  severity.  "  We  both  know  per 
fectly  well  what  you  are  to  Aunt  Katrina;  what  is  the  use 
of  pretending  otherwise?"  His  voice  softened.  "Your  pa 
tience  with  her  is  admirable ;  as  I  said  before,  don't  think  I 
don't  see  it.  I  spoke  on  your  own  account,  I  thought  you 
might  be  tired." 

"I  am  tired  —  sometimes.  But  I  should  be  tired  just 
the  same  in  a  house  of  my  own,"  answered  Margaret  liar- 
old. 

lie  left  her,  and  rode  down  to  East  Angels. 

But  his  visit  was  short ;  before  three  o'clock  he  was  again 
at  the  eyrie.  "  I  think  you  had  better  go  down,"  he  said  to 
Margaret,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak  to  her  unheard.  "  She 
is  taking  it  most  unreasonably ;  she  is  crying  almost  convul 
sively,  and  listens  to  nothing.  So  far,  Mrs.  Carew  thinks  it 
the  old  grief  for  her  mother;  a  revival.  But  she  won't  think 
so  long;  for  Garda,  you  know,  never  conceals  anything;  as 
soon  as  she  is  a  little  calmer  she  will  be  sure  to  say  some 
thing  that  will  let  out  the  whole." 

"  You  do  not  want  it  known  ?" 

"  I  thought  we  were  agreed  about  that.  How  can  any  one 
who  cares  for  the  c'irl  want  it  known?  It's  so" — lic'hcsi- 


EAST  ANGELS.  243 

tated  for  a  word,  and  then  fell  back  upon  the  useful  old  one 
—"so  childish,"  he  repeated. 

"  I  will  go  down,  then,"  said  Margaret. 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  I  hope  that  you  will  be  able  to 
bring  her  to  reason." 

"But  if  you  didn't— " 

"  I  didn't  because  I  lost  my  temper  a  little.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  time  had  come  to  speak  to  her  plainly." 

"  Plainly  generally  means  severely.  I  think  severity  will 
never  have  much  effect  upon  Garda;  if  you  are  severe,  you 
will  only  lose  your  influence." 

"  My  influence  ! — I  don't  know  that  I  have  any.  What  is 
your  idea  of  Edgarda  Thorne  ?"  he  said,  suddenly.  "  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  ever  asked  you.  Very  likely  you  won't 
tell." 

"  I  will  tell  exactly,  so  far  as  I  know  it  myself — my  idea," 
replied  Margaret.  "  One  cannot  have  a  very  definite  idea  of 
a  girl  of  sixteen." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  to  me  she  seems  a  remarkably  defi 
nite  person." 

"  She  is,  in  one  way.  I  think  she  is  very  warm-hearted. 
I  think  she  is  above  petty  things;  I  have  never  seen  any 
girl  who  went  so  little  into  details.  Mentally,  I  think  her 
very  clever,  though  she  is  also  indolent.  Her  frankness 
would  be  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  her  were  it  not 
for  her  beauty,  which  is  more  remarkable  still ;  it  is  her 
beauty,  I  think,  that  makes  her,  young  as  she  is,  so  '  definite,' 
as  you  call  it." 

"  We  seem  to  have  much  the  same  idea  of  her,"  said  Win- 
throp.  "  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it  possible,"  he  added. 

"  That  we  should  agree  in  anything  3"  said  Margaret,  with 
a  faint  smile. 

"  No,  not  that ;  but  a  woman  so  seldom  has  the  same  idea 
of  another  woman  that  a  man  has.  And — if  you  will  allow 
me  to  say  it — I  think  the  man's  idea  often  the  more  correct 
one,  for  a  woman  will  betray  (confide,  if  you  like  the  term 
better)  more  of  her  inner  nature,  her  real  self,  to  a  man,  when 
she  knows  him  well  and  likes  him,  than  she  ever  will  to  any 
woman,  no  matter  how  well  she  may  know  and  like  her." 

Margaret  concurred  in  this. 


244  EAST  ANGELS. 

"So  you  agree  with  me  there  too?  Another  surprise! 
What  I  have  said  is  true  enough,  but  women  generally  dis 
pute  it," 

"  What  you  have  said  is  true,  after  a  fashion,"  Margaret 
answered.  "But  the  inner  feelings  you  speak  of,  the  real 
self,  which  a  woman  confides  to  the  man  she  likes  rather 
than  to  a  woman,  these  are  generally  her  ideal  feelings,  her 
ideal  self ;  what  she  thinks  she  feels,  or  hopes  to  feel,  rather 
than  the  actual  feeling;  what  she  wishes  to  be,  rather  than 
what  she  is.  She  may  or  may  not  attain  her  ideal ;  but  in 
the  mean  time  she  is  judged,  by  those  of  her  own  sex  at 
least,  according  to  her  present  qualities,  what  she  has  al 
ready  attained  ;  what  she  is  practically,  and  every  day." 

"  So  you  think  it  is  her  ideals  that  Garda  has  confided  to 
me?  What  sort  of  an  ideal  was  Lucian  Spenser!" 

"  Gavda  is  an  exception ;  she  has  no  ideals." 

"  Oh  !  don't  make  her  out  so  disagreeable." 

"  I  couldn't  make  her  out  disagreeable  even  if  I  should 
try,"  answered  Margaret.  "  All  I  mean  is  that  her  nature  is 
so  easy,  so  sunny,  that  it  has  never  occurred  to  her  to  be  dis 
contented  ;  and  if  you  are  contented  you  don't  have  ideals." 

"  Now  you  are  making  her  out  self-complacent." 

"  No,  only  simple  ;  richly  natural  and  healthy.  She  puts 
the  rest  of  us  (women,  I  mean)  to  shame — the  rest  of  us 
with  our  complicated  motives,  and  involved  consciences." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  Garda  has  no  con 
science  ?" 

Margaret  looked  up;  she  saw  that  he  was  smiling.  "She 
has  quite  enough  for  her  happiness,"  she  answered,  smiling 
too. 

But  in  spite  of  the  smile  he  detected  a  melancholy  in  her 
tone.  And  this  he  instantly  resented.  For  he  would  nev 
er  allow  that  it  was  owing  to  her  conscientiousness  —  her 
conscience,  in  short  —  that  Margaret  Harold's  married  life 
had  been  what  it  was ;  that  sort  of  conscientiousness  was 
odious. 

"Don't  imagine  that  I  admire  conscience,"  he  remarked. 
"Too  much  of  it  makes  an  arid  desert  of  a  woman's  life. 
A  woman  of  that  sort,  too,  makes  her  whole  family  live  in 
the  desert !" 


EAST  ANGELS.  245 

Margaret  made  no  reply  to  this.  She  left  him  and  went 
to  find  Mrs.  Rutherford. 

"  Of  course  if  it  is  Garda,  little  Garda,"  that  lady  replied, 
with  a  sort  of  sardonic  playfulness  which  she  had  lately 
adopted, "  I  couldn't  dream  of  objecting."  She  had  given 
up  open  opposition  since  Winthrop's  suggestion  that  Mar 
garet  could  have,  if  she  should  wish  it,  a  home  of  her  own. 
The  suggestion  had  been  very  disagreeable,  not  only  in  itself 
(the  possibility  of  such  a  thing),  but  also  because  it  cut  so 
completely  across  her  well-established  position  that  it  was  an 
immense  favor  on  her  part  to  give  Margaret  a  home.  The 
favor  implied,  of  course,  a  following  gratitude ;  and  Marga 
ret's  gratitude  had  been  the  broad  cushion  upon  which  Mrs. 
Rutherford  had  been  comfortably  seated  for  seven  years. 
Take,  it  away,  and  she  would  be  reduced  to  making  objec 
tions — objections  (if  it  should  really  come  to  that)  to  Mar 
garet's  departure ;  and  what  objections  could  she  make  ? 
She  would  never  admit  that  her  niece's  presence  had  be 
come  necessary  to  her  comfort ;  and  to  say  that  she  was  too 
young  and  attractive  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  house  of  her 
own,  this  would  not  accord  at  all  with  her  accustomed  way 
of  speaking  of  her — a  way  which  had  carried  with  it  the 
implication  (though  not  in  actual  words)  that  she  was  nei 
ther.  For  some  reason,  the  youth  of  other  women  was  al 
ways  an  offence  to  Mrs.  Rutherford. 

However,  she  was  skilful  in  reducing  that  attraction.  Up 
to  twenty,  girls,  of  course,  were  "  silly,"  "  uninteresting." 
After  that  date,  they  all  sprang  immediately,  in  her  estima 
tion,  to  be  "  at  least  twenty-five,"  and  well  on  the  road,  both 
in  looks  and  character,  to  old-maidhood.  If  they  married,  it 
was  even  easier ;  for  in  a  few  months  they  were  sure  to  be 
come  "  so  faded  and  changed,  poor  things,"  that  one  would 
scarcely  know  them;  and,  with  a  little  determination,  this 
stage  could  be  kept  along  for  fifteen  or  twenty  years.  Only 
when  they  were  over  forty  did  Mrs.  Rutherford  begin  to  ad 
mit  the  possibility  of  their  being  rather  attractive ;  in  this 
lady's  opinion,  all  the  really  "superb"  women  were  several 
years  even  beyond  that. 

"I  shall  not  be  long  away  this  time,"  Margaret  had  re 
sponded. 


246  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Oh,  enjoy  your  new  plaything ;  it  won't  last !"  said  the 
aunt,  still  sportive. 

Margaret  reached  East  Angels  before  sunset.  Mrs.  Carcw 
told  her  that  Garda  was  down  at  the  landing. 

"  I've  been  down  there  three  times  myself ;  in  fact,  I've 
just  got  back,"  said  Betty,  who  looked  flushed  by  these  ex 
cursions.  "  The  truth  is,  I  fancy  she  doesn't  want  to  talk — 
she's  cried  so;  and  so  of  course  I  don't  stay,  of  course.  And 
then,  no  sooner  do  I  get  back  here,  than  I  think  perhaps  she's 
lonely,  and  down  I  go  again.  I  don't  mind  the  walk  in  the 
least,  though  it  is  a  little  warm  to-day,  but  Carlos  Mateo 
seems  to  have  taken  a  spite  against  me,  for  every  single 
time,  both  going  and  coming,  he  has  chased  me  the  whole 
length  of  the  live-oak  avenue — just  as  soon  as  we  were  out 
of  Garda's  sight ;  and  I'm  so  afraid  he'll  reach  down  and  nip 
my  ankles,  that  I  run.  However,  I  don't  mind  it  at  all,  real 
ly  ;  and  when  I  came  up  this  last  time  I  thought  the  best 
thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  try  and  get  up  something  nice 
for  Garda's  supper ;  she's  touched  nothing  since  morning, 
and  so  much  crying  is  dreadfully  exhausting,  of  course.  I'm 
right  glad  you've  come,  you'll  be  such  a  comfort  to  her  ;  and 
now  /  will  devote  my  time  (I  reckon  it'll  take  it  all)  to  that 
Eaquel,  who  certainly  is  the  most  tiresome ;  the  only  man 
ner  of  means,  Mrs.  Harold,  by  which  I  can  get  what  I  want 
this  evening  is  to  keep  going  out  to  the  kitchen  and  pretend 
to  be  merely  looking  in  for  a  moment  or  two  in  a  friendly 
sort  of  way,  as  though  she  were  an  old  servant  of  my  own, 
and  talk  about  other  matters,  and  then  just  allude  to  the 
supper  at  the  end  casually,  as  one  may  call  it;  by  keeping 
this  up  an  hour  and  a  half  more  (I've  already  been  out  three 
times)  I  may  get  some  faint  approach  to  what  I'm  after. 
You  see  I'm  only  a  Georgian,  not  a  Spaniard  !  And  to  think 
of  what  poor  little  Mistress  Thorne  must  have  gone  through 
with  her — she,  not  even  a  Southerner !  Oh  dear !  she  must 
have  suffered.  But  a  good  many  of  us  have  suffered," 
continued  Betty,  suddenly  breaking  down  and  bursting  into 
tears.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  cry  now,  Mrs.  Harold, 
any  more  than  any  other  time;  I'm  ashamed  of  myself,  re 
ally  I  am.  But — sometimes — I — cannot — help  it !"  And 
for  a  few  moments  the  stout,  ruddy -faced  woman  sobbed 


EAST   ANGELS.  247 

bitterly.  In  truth  she  had  suffered ;  she  had  seen  her  broth 
ers,  her  husband's  brothers,  her  young  nephews,  her  own  fort 
une  and  theirs,  swept  off  by  war,  together  with  the  hopes  and 
beliefs  which  had  been  as  real  to  her  as  life  itself.  She  had 
never  reasoned  much,  or  argued,  but  she  had  felt.  The  un 
changeable  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  which  had  kept  her 
from  growing  bitter,  had  not  been  a  sign  of  quick  forgetful- 
ness  ;  poor  Betty's  heart  ached  often,  and  never,  never  forgot. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  could  be  so  sympathetic,  my  dear," 
she  said,  naively,  to  Margaret,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes. 
"Thank  you;  I  "can  see  now  why  Garda's  so  fond  of  you." 
She  pressed  Margaret's  hand,  kissed  her,  and,  still  shaken  by 
her  sudden  emotion,  went  out  for  another  encounter  with 
Raquel. 

Margaret  found  Garda  on  the  bench  at  the  landing.  She 
looked  pale  and  exhausted,  and  was  glad  to  lay  her  head  on 
her  northern  friend's  shoulder  and  tell  her  all  her  grief.  It 
was  a  surprising  sort  of  sorrow — she  expressed  it  freely  as 
usual ;  there  was  no  manifestation  of  wounded  pride  in  it, 
no  anger  that  she  had  been  so  soon  forgotten,  or  jealousy  of 
the  person  whom  Lucian  had  married;  she  seemed,  indeed, 
scarcely  to  remember  the  person  whom  Lucian  had  married. 
All  she  remembered  was  that  now  she  should  probably  not 
see  him  again,  or  soon  again ;  and  this  was  the  cause  of  all 
her  tears — disappointment  in  the  hope  of  having  the  pleas 
ure,  the  entertainment,  of  his  presence.  For  it  all  came  back 
to  that,  her  amusement;  the  rich  share  of  enjoyment  that 
had  been  taken  from  her;  even  Lucian  himself  she  did  not 
dwell  upon  save  as  he  was  associated  with  this,  save  as  he 
could  give  her  the  delight  of  looking  at  him  (she  announced 
this  as  a  great  delight),  could  charm  her  with  the  versatility 
of  his  talk.  "  I  have  never  seen  any  one  half  so  beautiful " 
—  "Nobody  ever  made  me  laugh  so"  —  these  two  declara 
tions  she  repeated  over  and  over  again ;  Margaret  could  have 
laughed  herself  had  the  grief  which  accompanied  them  been 
less  real.  But  there  was  nothing  feigned  in  the  heavy  eyes, 
and  the  sobs  which  came  every  now  and  then,  shaking  the 
girl's  whole  frame. 

She  remained  at  East  Angels  two  days.  During  this  time, 
while  she  was  very  gentle  with  Garda,  she  did  not  try  to 


248  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  bring  her  to  reason,"  as  Winthrop  had  suggested  ;  but  she 
did  try  the  method  of  simple  listening,  and  found  it  very  ef 
ficacious. 

Garda,  unrebuffed,  unchilled,  and  frank  as  always,  let  out 
all  her  thoughts,  all  her  feelings;  she  said  some  very  aston 
ishing  things — astonishing,  that  is,  to  her  hearer;  but  then 
she  was  herself  an  astonishing  girl,  an  unusual  girl.  The 
end  of  it  was  that  the  unusual  girl  clung  more  closely  than 
ever  to  her  friend,  and  that  she  soon  became  calmer,  passive 
if  not  happy.  Winthrop,  coming  down  to  East  Angels  on 
the  second  day,  found  her  so,  and  took  counsel  with  Marga 
ret,  after  she  had  returned  home,  over  the  change  ;  he  ex 
pressed  the  opinion  that  very  soon  she  would  have  forgotten 
all  about  it.  In  this  he  was  mistaken  ;  the  days  passed,  and 
Garda  remained  in  the  same  passive  condition.  She  was 
gentle  with  every  one ;  to  Margaret  and  Winthrop  she  was 
affectionate.  But  in  spite  of  her  bloom — for  her  color  came 
back  as  soon  as  the  tears  ceased — in  spite  of  her  rich  youth- 
fulness,  she  had  the  appearance  of  a  person  who  has  stopped, 
who  does  not  care,  who  has  lost  interest  and  lets  the  world 
go  by.  This  could  not  make  her  look  older;  but  it  did  give 
her  a  strange  expression. 

"A  mourning  child  is  worse  than  a  mourning  woman," 
said  Winthrop  to  Margaret,  emphatically.  "  It's  unnatural." 

"  Garda  isn't  a  child,"  she  answered. 

"  Since  when  have  you  come  to  that  conclusion  ?" 

She  hesitated.  "I  think,  perhaps,  I  have  never  fully  under 
stood  her.  I  don't  know  that  I  understand  her  even  now." 

"Oh,  'understand' — as  if  she  were  a  sphinx,  poor  little 
girl !  One  thing  is  certain,"  he  added,  rather  Contradictorily, 
"  if  she  loses  her  simplicity,  she  loses  all  her  charm." 

"Not  all,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  all  to  me." 

"  You  cannot  see  what  she  finds  to  admire  in  Luciau 
Spenser;  that  is  what  vexes  you." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  vexed.  She  fancied  her  own  fan 
cy,  her  own  imagination  ;  that  was  all." 

"Garda  has  very  little  imagination." 

"  How  you  dislike  her !"  said  Winthrop,  looking  straight 
into  her  eyes. 


EAST  ANGELS.  249 

To  his  surprise  he  almost  thought  he  saw  them  falter. 
**  On  the  contrary,  I  am  much  attached  to  her,"  she  answer 
ed,  letting  her  glance  drop;  "I  shall  grow  very  fond  of  her, 
I  see  that.  It  was  nothing-  against  her  to  say  that  she  has 
little  imagination.  If  she  had  had  more,  would  she  have 
been  so  contented  here?  I  think  it  has  been  very  fortunate." 

"  Yes,  she  has  certainly  been  contented,"  said  Winthrop. 
"  I  like  that." 

"  As  to  what  you  say  about  her  losing  her  simplicity,  I 
don't  think  she  has  lost  it  in  the  least.  Why,  what  could  be 
a  greater  evidence  of  it  than  the  open  way  in  which  she  has 
shown  out  to  me,  but  more  especially  to  you,  all  she  has  felt 
about  Mr.  Spenser?" 

"  Yes,  to  me — I  should  think  so  !  I  might  have  been  her 
grandfather,"  responded  Winthrop,  flapping  his  hat  with  his 
gloves,  which  he  had  just  discovered  in  some  unremembcred 
pocket. 

In  the  mean  time  the  dark  Torres,  lean  and  solemn,  had 
haunted  East  Angels  ever  since  Mrs.  Thome's  death.  Twice 
a  day,  with  deep  reverence  for  affliction,  he  came  to  inquire 
after  Garda's  health  ;  twice  a  day,  walking  almost  on  tiptoe, 
lie  withdrew.  His  visits  never  exceeded  ten  minutes  in 
length.  So  great  was  his  respect  that  he  never  sat  down. 
But  underneath  all  this  quietude  the  feelings,  which  Manuel 
had  described  as  volcanic,  were  surging  within  ;  if  they  did 
not  show  on  the  surface,  that  was  the  misfortune  (or  advan 
tage)  of  having  a  profound  sense  of  dignity,  and  a  yellow 
skin.  Garda  was  now  alone  in  the  world,  and  she  was  in 
great  trouble  ;  like  the  other  Gracias  friends,  Torres  believed 
that  all  the  recent  grief,  together  with  the  change  in  her,  had 
been  caused  by  her  mother's  death — Margaret  and  Winthrop 
had  at  least  succeeded  in  that.  But  even  if  all  Gracias  had 
known  the  truth,  Torres  would  never  have  known  it;  he 
would  never  have  known  it  because  he  would  never  have  be 
lieved  it.  A  Torres  believed  only  what  was  credible,  and 
such  a  tale  about  a  Duero  would  be  incredible.  In  the  same 
way,  he  had  never  given  the  least  credit  to  the  story  that 
Garda  was  going  north— to  New  York.  Why  should  Gar- 
da  go  to  New  York,  any  more  than  he,  Torres,  to  Japan  ? 
No;  what  Garda  needed  now  was  not  wild  travelling  about 


250  EAST  ANGELS. 

the  world  with  promiscuous  people,  but  safeguards  that  were 
not  promiscuous;  safeguards  that  should  be  embodied  in  a 
single  and  distinct  Arm,  a  single  and  distinguished  Name; 
in  short,  what  he  himself  could  give  her — an  Alliance ;  an 
Alliance  suited  to  her  birth. 

So  when  the  visits  of  affliction  had  been  all  accomplished, 
he  started  one  morning  in  his  best  attire,  and  his  aunt's  black 
boat,  rowed  by  eight  negroes,  for  Gracias-a-Dios,  to  ask  per 
mission  from  Reginald  Kirby,  guardian,  to  "  address,"  with 
reference  to  an  Alliance,  the  Dueros'  daughter. 

The  Giron  fields,  meanwhile,  lay  idle  and  empty  behind 
him  ;  he  had  swept  them  of  every  man. 

"Dear  Adolfo,"  said  his  aunt,  who,  as  a  widow  with  six 
little  children,  was  trying  hard  (for  a  Giron)  to  raise  some 
thing  on  her  plantation  that  year,  "  must  you  have  them  all  ? 
They  are  very  much  needed  to-day,  we  are  so  behindhand 
with  everything." 

"My  aunt,  what  is  sugar  compared  with  our  name?" 

Madam  Giron  immediately  agreed  that  it  was  nothing, 
nothing. 

"Look  out,  my  aunt,  as  we  start;  that  will  be  compen 
sation,"  said  Adolfo. 

Madam  Giron  not  only  looked  out,  but  she  came  down  to 
the  landing.  She  was  a  handsome  woman  still,  though  port 
ly;  she  had  dark  eyes  of  a  charming  expression,  and  shining 
black  hair  elaborately  braided.  When  she  was  dressed  for  a 
visit  she  had  a  waist.  On  ordinary  occasions  it  lapped  over 
the  band  more  or  less.  She  was  good-nature  itself,  and  now 
stood  on  the  bank  smiling,  wearing  a  gown  of  rather  shape 
less  aspect,  which  was,  however,  short  enough  to  show  a  pair 
of  very  pretty  Spanish  feet  incased  in  neat  little  black  slip 
pers.  She  had  already  forgotten  the  idle  fields  in  her  pride 
at  the  fine  appearance  of  the  rowers.  "  A  good  voyage !" 
she  said. 

The  boat,  with  the  eight  negroes  sitting  close  together, 
was  low  in  the  water  as  it  started  off.  The  stern  seemed 
hio'her;  any  place  where  Torres  sat  always  seemed  higher. 

Reaching  Gracias,  he  landed  at  the  water-steps  of  the  plaza, 
and  leaving  the  boat  waiting  below,  went  to  the  residence  of 
the  Kirbys — an  old  v/hite  house  in  a  large  garden.  Dr.  Reg- 


EAST  ANGELS.  251 

inalrl,  for  the  moment,  was  out.  Torres  signified  that  he 
would  return,  and  making  his  way  with  his  stiff  gait  to  one 
of  the  side  streets,  he  walked  up  and  down  for  twenty  min 
utes,  beguiling  the  time  (as  all  his  phrases  for  the  interview 
were  definitely  arranged,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  disturb  them) 
by  trying  to  translate  a  sign  which  was  nailed  on  a  low  co- 
quina  house  near. 


CHRISTOBAL  KEY, 

TONSORIAL     ARTIST. 


N.B.— CLEAN  TOWELS.    SATISFACTION 

GUARANTEED. 


Having  thus  employed  the  interval  (and  still  at  "  Tonsorial " 
in  his  attempted  translation),  he  returned  to  the  Kirby  home 
stead. 

The  Doctor  was  now  in,  and  received  him  courteously. 
Torres,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  hat  in  hand,  his 
feet  drawn  together  at  the  heels,  made  (after  several  opening 
sentences  of  ceremony  which  he  had  constructed  with  care 
at  home)  his  formal  demand. 

The  Doctor  had  always  got  on  very  well  with  Torres  by 
replying  to  him  in  English ;  any  chance  remark  would  do. 
Torres  listened  to  the  remark  with  respect,  understanding  no 
more  of  it  than  the  Doctor  had  understood  of  the  Spanish 
sentence  which  had  preceded  it.  Then,  after  due  pause,  the 
Cuban  would  say  something  more  in  his  own  tongue.  And 
the  Doctor  would  again  reply  in  English.  In  this  way  they 
had  had,  when  they  happened  to  meet,  quite  long  conversa 
tions,  which  appeared  to  be  satisfactory  to  both.  The  Doc 
tor  now  reverted  to  this  method ;  the  boy  had  evidently 
come  to  pay  him  a  visit  of  ceremony  in  acknowledgment  of 
several  invitations;  he  would  not  probably  stay  long.  So, 
in  answer  to  Torres'  request  for  permission  to  "address" 
Garda,  with  reference  to  an  "Alliance,"  he  replied  that  on 
the  whole  he  thought  the  oranges  would  be  good  this  year, 
though — and  here  followed  a  little  disquisition  on  the  effects 
respectively  of  wet  and  dry  seasons,  to  which  Torres  listened 


252  EAST  ANGELS. 

with  gravity  unmoved.  He  then  advanced  to  his  second  po 
sition  :  he  hoped  the  Doctor,  as  guardian,  cherished  no  per 
sonal  objections  to  his  suit;  this  was  the  courtesy  of  cere 
mony  on  his  part,  of  course ;  the  Doctor  naturally  could 
cherish  no  objection. 

The  Doctor  replied  that  he  had  never  cared  much  for  man 
darins  ;  for  his  own  part,  he  preferred  the  larger  kinds.  How 
ever,  that  was  a  matter  of  taste — each  one  to  his  own  ;  lie 
believed  in  letting  everybody  have  what  he  liked.  And,  hav 
ing  the  third  time  pushed  a  chair  in  vain  towards  his  visitor, 
he  waived  further  ceremony  and  seated  himself ;  he  had  al 
ready  been  kept  standing  unconscionably  long. 

Torres,  who  had  understood  at  least  the  gesture,  responded 
with  deference,  pointing  out  that  to  be  seated  would  not  ac 
cord  with  his  present  position  as  most  humble  of  suitors  for 
the  Doctor's  favor. 

And  then  the  Doctor  responded  that,  to  please  his  mother, 
he  had  planted  a  few  mandarins  after  all. 

So  they  went  on.  The  Doctor  thought  his  visitor  would 
never  go.  From  his  comfortable  chair  he  watched  him  stand 
ing  in  his  fixed  attitude,  producing  his  Spanish  phrases,  one 
after  the  other,  with  grave  regularity,  whenever  there  was  a 
pause.  Finally  the  Doctor,  who  had  a  gleam  of  fun  in  him, 
folded  his  arms  and  recited  to  him  two  hundred  lines  from 
"The  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  which  was  one  of  his  favorite  po 
ems;  he  emphasized  the  parts  which  he  liked,  and  even  ges 
ticulated  a  little  as  he  went  on,  not  hurrying  at  all,  but  fin 
ishing  the  whole  in  round  full  tones,  with  excellent  taste  and 
elocution.  "There!"  he  said  to  himself;  "let  us  see  how 
he  likes  that." 

But  Torres,  apparently,  liked  it  as  well  as  anything  else ; 
he  listened  to  the  whole  without  change  of  expression,  and 
then,  after  the  proper  pause,  brought  out  another  of  his  re 
marks.  The  Doctor  glanced  at  the  clock;  the  visitor  had 
been  there  over  half  an  hour.  "  Look  here,  Torres,  what  is 
it  you  are  talking  about?"  he  said,  convinced  at  last  that  the 
Cuban  had  really  something  to  say,  and  that  their  usual  tac 
tics  would  not  do  this  time.  lie  had  understood  not  a  word 
of  the  long  Spanish  sentences,  for  Garda's  name,  which  might 
have  thrown  some  light  upon  them,  had  been  scrupulously 


EAST  ANGELS.  253 

left  unspoken  by  this  punctilious  suitor,  who  had  used  the 
third  person  throughout,  alluding  to  her  solely  as  the  descend 
ant  of  her  ancestors,  and,  as  such,  a  "consort"  who  would 
be  accepted  by  his  own. 

Torres  watched  while  the  Doctor  walked  about  the  room, 
trying  to  think  of  something  which  should  act  as  interpreter; 
he  paused  at  pen  and  paper  on  the  writing-table;  but  written 
Spanish  was  no  clearer  to  him  than  spoken.  At  last,  with  a 
sudden  inspiration,  he  took  down  a  dictionary.  "  Here,"  he 
said,  "  find  the  words  you  want."  And  he  thrust  the  Span 
ish  half  upon  the  grave  young  man. 

But  Torres  recoiled  ;  he  could  not  possibly  make  a  "  school 
exercise,"  he  declared,  of  his  most  sacred  aspirations. 

The  Doctor,  exasperated,  pried  the  words  out  of  him  one 
by  one,  and  then  himself,  with  spectacles  on,  looked  them 
out,  or  tried  to,  in  the  dictionary.  But  progress  was  slow  ; 
Torres'  sentences  contained  much  circumlocution,  and  he 
would  not  give  the  infinitives  of  his  verbs  when  the  Doctor 
asked  for  them,  considering  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  lend 
himself  in  any  way  to  such  a  childish  performance.  At  length, 
after  much  effort,  suddenly  the  Doctor  got  at  his  meaning. 
"You  ridiculous  idiot!"  he  said,  throwing  the  dictionary 
down  with  a  slam  (for  he  had  had  to  work  hard,  and  the 
print  was  fine),  "  you  make  *  an  Alliance,'  indeed  !  Alliance  ! 
Why,  you're  two  years  under  age  yourself,  and  haven't  done 
growing  yet,  not  to  speak  of  your  having  nothing  in  the 
world  to  offer  a  wife  that  I  know  of  —  except  your  impu 
dence,  which  is  colossal,  I  grant!  Go  home  and  play  with 
your  top.  When  you're  a  man,  you  can  come  back  and  talk 
of  it — if  you  like ;  at  present  face  about,  go  home  and  play 
with  your  top  !" 

Torres,  of  course,  could  not  comprehend  these  injunctions. 
But  he  could  comprehend  the  Doctor's  opening  the  door  for 
him ;  and,  with  respect  unbroken,  he  formally  took  leave. 
He  walked  down  the  side  street,  and  looked  mechanically  at 
the  sign  again  ;  but  he  could  not  translate  it  any  more  than 
he  could  the  Doctor's  last  sentence,  whose  words  he  carried 
carefully  in  his  memory.  He  went  back  to  his  boat,  and  was 
rowed  in  state  again  down  the  shining  water. 

"  My  airnt,"  he  said,  when  he  had  arrived,  drawing  Madam 


254  EAST  ANGELS. 

Giron  apart  from  the  small  Girons  who  encompassed  her, 
"  what  is  *  Co — ome — oonplay — weetyer — torp  ?'  " 

But  Madam  Giron  could  not  tell  him  ;  her  English  was  not 
imaginative  enough  to  enable  her  to  comprehend  her  nephew's 
pronunciations.  Torres  decided  that  he  would  go  and  ask 
Manuel,  and  rowed  himself  across  to  Patricio  for  the  purpose  ; 
this  not  being  a  state  occasion,  it  was  allowable  to  ply  the 
oars. 

"  Manuel,  what  is  '  Co — omc — oonplay — weetyer — torp  ?' " 
he  said,  appearing  on  the  piazza  of  Manuel's  room,  which 
formed  one  of  the  wings  of  the  rambling  old  house. 

But  Manuel  was  in  a  desperate  humor ;  he  was  putting  on 
his  hat,  then  dragging  it  off  again,  and  rushing  np  and  down 
the  room  with  a  rapid  step  ;  he  glared  at  his  friend,  but  would 
not  reply. 

"I  asked  you,  Manuel,  what  is  'Co  —  ome  —  oonplay  — 
weetyer — torp  ?'  "  repeated  Torres.  "  It  is  what  the  Gracias- 
ii-Dios  doctor  said  to  me,  as  answer,  when  (after  very  long 
stupidity  on  his  part ;  I  can  say  it  to  you,  Manuel — doltishly 
Jong)  he  at  last  comprehended  that  I  was  requesting  his  per- 
>nission  to  address  the  Senorita  Duero.  Naturally,  as  you 
svill  now  understand,  I  desire  a  careful  translation." 

Manuel  laughed  bitterly.  "So  you've  got  it  too!  But 
7  went  to  the  girl  herself,  as  you  would  have  done  if  you 
hadn't  been  such  a  ninny  ;  but  you're  always  a  ninny.  What 
do  you  suppose  she  said  to  me  —  yes,  Garda  herself?"  he 
went  on,  furiously,  dropping,  in  the  recital  of  his  wrongs, 
even  the  pleasure  of  abusing  his  friend.  "  Here  I  only  went 
to  her  because  she  is  so  alone  now,  so  unhappy,  it  was  pure 
compassion  on  my  part;  I  made  sacrifices,  sacrifices,  I  tell 
you,  and  poignant  ones ! — I  intended  to  see  the  world  first. 
Am  I  not  in  the  flower  of  my  youth — I  ask  you  that?  Am 
I  not  keenly  pleasing?  But  —  everybody  knows!  Well, 
was  she  grateful?  I  leave  you  to  judge!  She  deliberately 
said — yes,  in  so  many  words — that  she  had  never  cared  for 
me,  when  the  whole  world  knows  she  has  cared  to  distrac 
tion,  to  frenzy.  And  she  had  the  effrontery  to  add  that  the 
only  person  she  cared  for — and  for  him  she  cared  '  day  and 
night' — was  that — that — "  In  his  rage  Manuel  could  not 
speak  the  name,  but  he  seized  a  great  knife  wi'th  a  sharp 


EAST  ANGELS.  255 

edge,  and  cut  straight  through  a  book  which  was  lying  on 
the  table.  "  There  !"  he  cried,  throwing  the  severed  leaves 
in  handfuls  about  the  room,  "that  is  how  I  will  serve  him 
— Spenser-r-r-r !  Let  him  come  on  !"  And  he  continued  to 
throw  the  papers  wildly. 

Torres  was  shocked.  Not  at  the  sight  of  his  friend  dis 
playing  his  vengeance  in  that  childish  fashion ;  he  had  long- 
considered  Manuel  hopelessly  undignified.  His  shock  came 
from  the  idea  of  a  Senorita  Duero  having  been  spoken  to  on 
such  a  subject,  spoken  to  directly  !  Of  course  she  had  re 
jected  Manuel  (it  would  always  be  of  course  that  she  should 
reject  Manuel),  but  the  idea  of  her  having  been  forced  to  do 
so  by  word  of  mouth — being  deprived  of  the  delicate  privi 
lege  of  expressing  herself  through  her  proper  guardian  !  As 
to  the  story  that  she  was  thinking  of  some  one  else,  "  day  and 
night,"  he  paid  no  heed  to  it;  that  was  plainly  Manuel's  fic 
tion.  No  one  could  for  a  moment  believe  that  the  senorita 
thought  of  any  one  long  after  sunset — say  half-past  seven 
or  eight;  anything  else  would  be  clearly  improper. 

"  If  you  had  given  the  subject  a  deeper  consideration, 
Manuel — "  he  began. 

But  Manuel  was  still  engaged  with  the  book ;  he  was  now 
slicing  the  cover.  "  Spenser- r-r-r-r  !" 

Torres  went  towards  him,  and  put  out  his  forefinger  with 
an  impressive  gesture.  "  I  say  if  you  had  given  the  subject 
a  deeper  consideration,  Manuel — " 

"  Scat !"  said  Manuel. 

"What?"  said  the  Cuban. 

"  Scat !  scat !     You're  no  better  than  an  old  tabby." 

Torres  looked  at  him  solemnly.  Then  he  put  up  his  fin 
ger  again.  "  It  was  not  the  proper  course,  Manuel,"  he  be 
gan,  a  third  time.  "If  you  had  given — " 

"  Oh,  go  to  the  devil !"  cried  Manuel,  with  a  sort  of  howl, 
leaping  towards  him  with  the  knife. 

Torres  thought  he  had  better  go. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  Manuel ;  Torres  had 
never  been  afraid  in  his  life.  But  Manuel  was  a  little  ex 
cited  (he  had  the  bad  habit  of  excitement) ;  it  was,  perhaps, 
better  to  leave  him  to  himself  for  a  while.  So  he  went  back 
to  the  main-land;  and  meditated  noon  the  Doctor's  words. 


256  EAST  ANGELS. 

They  remained  mysterious,  and  the  next  day  he  made  an 
other  progress  up  the  Espiritu  to  Gracias,  having*  decided  to 
intrust  his  secret  to  the  good  rector  of  St.  Philip  and  St. 
James',  and  profit  by  his  knowledge  of  both  languages. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore  was  not  only  good,  but  he  had  not 
been  troubled  by  nature  with  too  large  an  endowment  of  hu 
mor — often  an  inconvenient  possession.  He  listened  to  his 
visitor's  story  and  the  quoted  sentence  with  gravity  ;  then, 
after  a  moment's  meditation,  he  put  his  long  hands  together, 
the  tip  of  each  delicately  finished  finger  accurately  meeting 
its  mate,  and  made  a  discreet  translation  as  follows :  "  You 
are  still  young ;  it  would  be  better,  perhaps,  to  remain  at 
home  until  you  are  somewhat  older."  "Somewhat"  was 
Mr.  Moore's  favorite  word ;  everything  with  him  was  some 
what  so;  nothing  (save  wickedness)  entirely  so.  In  this 
way  he  escaped  rashness.  Certainly  Reginald  Kirby  had 
put  no  "somewhat"  of  any  sort  in  his  answer  to  the  Cuban. 
But  Mr.  Moore  was  of  the  opinion  that  he  intended  to  do 
so  (being  prevented,  probably,  by  that  same  rashness),  and 
so  he  gave  his  guest  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

Torres  reflected  upon  the  translation  ;  he  had  accepted  a 
chair  this  time,  but  sat  hat  in  hand,  his  heels  drawn  together 
as  before.  "  With  your  favor,  sir,"  he  said  at  last,  raising 
his  eyes  and  making  the  clergyman  a  little  bow,  "  this  seems 
to  me  hardly  an  acceptance?" 

"Hardly,  I  think,"  replied  the  clergyman,  with  modera 
tion. 

"At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  a  rejection.  As  I  under 
stand  it,  I  am  advised— for  the  present  at  least — simply  to 
wait?"  And  he  looked  at  the  clergyman  inquiringly. 

"  Exactly — very  simple — to  wait,"  assented  Mr.  Moore. 

The  Cuban  rose ;  and  made  ceremonious  acknowledg 
ments. 

"  You  return  ?"  asked  the  clergyman,  affably. 

"  I  return." 

"  There  is,  no  doubt,  much  to  interest  you  on  the  planta 
tion,"  remarked  Mr.  Moore,  in  a  general  way. 

"  What  there  is  could  be  put  upon  the  point  of  the  finest 
lance  known  to  history,  and  balanced  there,"  replied  Torres, 
with  a  dull  glance  of  his  dull  dark  eyes. 


EAST  ANGELS.  257 

"  I  fear  that  young  man  has  a  somewhat  gloomy  disposi 
tion,"  thought  the  clergyman,  when  left  alone. 

Torres  went  down  the  lagoon  again  ;  and  began  to  wait. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  MAN  alive  !  of  all  the  outlandish  !"  This  was  the  un 
spoken  phrase  in  Minerva  Poindexter's  mind  as  she  watched 
a  little  scene  which  was  going  on  near  by.  "  I  suppose  it's 
peekin',  but  I  don't  care.  What  in  the  name  of  all  creation 
are  they  at  ?" 

Behind  one  of  the  old  houses  of  Gracias  there  was  a  broad 
open  space  which  had  once  been  a  field.  On  the  far  edge  of 
this  sunny  waste  stood  some  negro  cabins,  each  brilliant  with 
whitewash,  and  possessing  a  shallow  little  garden  of  its  own, 
gay  with  flowers ;  in  almost  every  case,  above  the  low  roof 
rose  the  clear  green  of  a  clump  of  bananas.  A  path  bor 
dered  by  high  bushes  led  from  the  town  to  this  little  settle 
ment,  and  here  it  was  that  Celestine,  herself  invisible,  had 
stopped  to  look  through  a  rift  in  the  foliage.  A  negro 
woman  was  coming  down  the  dusty  track  which  passed  in 
front  of  the  cabins ;  on  her  head  she  carried  a  large  bundle 
tied  up  in  a  brightly  colored  patchwork  counterpane.  As 
she  drew  near  the  first  house  she  espied  her  friend  Mrs. 
Johnson  sitting  on  her  front  step  enjoying  the  air,  with  the 
last  young  Johnson,  Nando,  on  her  knee.  The  first  woman 
(Celestine  knew  that  she  was  called  Jinny)  stopped,  put  one 
arm  akimbo,  and,  steadying  her  bundle  with  the  other  hand, 
began  to  sway  herself  slightly  from  side  to  side  at  the  hips, 
while  her  bare  feet,  which  wrere  visible,  together  with  a  space 
of  bare  ankle  above,  coming  out  below  her  short  cotton  skirt, 
moved  forward  in  a  measured  step,  the  heel  of  the  right  be 
ing  placed  diagonally  against  the  toes  of  the  left,  and  then  the 
heel  of  the  left  in  its  turn  advanced  with  a  slow  level  sweep, 
and  placed  diagonally  across  the  toes  of  the  right.  There 
was  little  elevation  of  the  sole,  the  steps,  though  long,  being 
kept  as  close  as  possible  to  the  ground,  but  without  touching- 
it  until  the  final  down  pressure,  which  was  deep  and  firm. 

17 


258  EAST  ANGELS. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  liberty  allowed,  it  was  a  very  exact 
measure  that  Jinny  was  treading;  the  tracks  made  by  her 
heel,  the  broad  spread  of  her  foot,  and  the  five  toes  in  the 
white  dust,  followed  each  other  regularly  in  even  zigzags 
which  described  half  circles.  Thus  swaying  herself  rhyth 
mically,  turning  now  a  little  to  the  right,  now  a  little  to  the 
left,  Jinny  slowly  approached  Mrs.  Johnson,  who  regarded 
her  impassively,  continuing  to  trot  Nanda  without  change 
of  expression.  But  when  Jinny  had  come  within  a  distance 
of  fifteen  feet,  suddenly  Mrs.  Johnson  rose,  dropped  her  off 
spring  (who  took  it  philosophically),  and  began  in  her  turn 
to  sway  herself  gently  from  side  to  side,  and  then,  with  arms 
akimbo,  her  bare  feet  performing  the  same  slow,  exact  evolu 
tions,  she  advanced  with  gravity  to  meet  Jinny,  the  two  now 
joining  in  a  crooning  song.  They  met,  circled  round  each 
other  three  times  with  the  same  deliberate  step  and  motion, 
their  song  growing  louder  and  louder.  Then  Mrs.  Johnson 
shook  her  skirts,  flung  out  her  arms  with  a  wild  gesture,  and 
stopped  as  suddenly  as  she  had  begun,  walking  back  to  her 
door-step  and  picking  up  Nando,  while  Jinny,  advancing  and 
taking  up  a  comfortable  position  on  one  broad  foot  (idly 
stroking  its  ankle  meanwhile  with  the  dust- whitened  sole  of 
the  other),  the  two  fell  into  conversation,  with  no  allusion 
either  by  word  or  look  to  the  mystic  exercises  of  the  mo 
ment  before. 

"Howdy,  Mis'  Johnson?"  said  Jinny,  as  though  she  had 
just  come  lip.  "  How's  Mister  Johnson  dis  mawnin'  ?  Speck 
he's  bettah  ;  I  year  he  wuz." 

"  Yessum,  Miss  Jinny  More,  yessum.  He's  bettah,  dat's  a 
fac' ;  he's  mighty  nigh  'bout  well  agin,  Mister  Johnson  is, 
tank  dc  Lawd !" 

"  Save  us !  what  mistering  and  missussing  !"  said  Celestine 
to  herself.  She  watched  them  a  moment  longer,  the  colored 
people  being  still  a  profound  mystery  to  her.  Then  she 
emerged  from  her  bush-bordered  path,  and  making  her  way 
to  Mrs.  Johnson,  hurriedly  delivered  her  message:  Mrs.  Har 
old  would  like  to  have  her  come  to  the  eyrie  for  a  while,  to 
act  as  nurse  for  Mrs.  Rutherford. 

For  that  lady  had  met  with  an  unfortunate  accident;  while 
stepping-  from  her  phaeton  she  had  fallen,  no  one  knew  how 


EAST  AXGELS.  259 

or  why,  and  though  the  phaeton  was  low  and  the  ground 
soft,  she  had  injured  one  of  her  knees  so  seriously  that  it 
•was  feared  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  walk  for  some 
time.  Once  fairly  in  bed  and  obliged  to  remain  there,  other 
symptoms  had  developed  themselves,  so  that  she  appeared  to 
have,  as  the  sympathetic  Betty  (who  had  hurried  up  from 
East  Angels)  expressed  it,  "a  little,  just  a  little,  you  know, 
of  pretty  much  everything  under  the  sun."  In  this  condi 
tion  of  affairs  Katrina  Rutherford  naturally  required  a  good 
deal  of  waiting  upon.  And  after  the  time  had  been  divided 
between  Margaret  and  Celestine  for  several  days  and  nights, 
Dr.  Kirby  peremptorily  intervened,  and  told  Margaret  to  send 
for  Looth  Johnson,  "  the  best  nurse  in  Gracias — the  best,  in 
fact,  south  of  the  city  of  Charleston."  Looth  was  Telano's 
mother :  this  was  in  her  favor  with  Celestine.  But  when 
the  poor  Vermont  spinster  was  actually  face  to  face  with 
her,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  a  person  who  danced  with 
bare  black  legs  in  the  dusty  road  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
could  be  either  the  mother  of  the  spotlessly  attired  Telano, 
or  the  sort  of  attendant  required  by  Mrs.  Peter  Rutherford. 
Dr.  Kirby's  orders,  peremptory  as  they  were,  Celestine  would 
have  freely  disobeyed ;  but  she  did  not  dare  disobey  them 
when  they  had  been  repeated  by  Margaret  Harold. 

"  It's  where  your  son  is,"  she  explained,  desperately,  forc 
ing  herself  to  think  of  Telano's  snowy  jackets  as  she  caught 
another  glimpse  of  his  mother's  toes. 

"  I  knows  whar  'tis,"  replied  Looth,  who  had  risen  and 
dropped  a  courtesy.  And  then,  as  Celestine  departed,  hurry 
ing  away  with  an  almost  agitated  step,  "  Telano  'lows  she's 
a  witch,"  she  said  to  Jinny,  in  a  low  voice,  as  the  two  looked 
after  the  spare  erect  figure  in  its  black  gown.  "/  'lows,  how- 
sumebber,  it's  juss  ribs  an'  bones  an'  all  knucklely  up  de  back ; 
nubbuddy  'ain't  nebber  seed  so  many  knucklelies  !  I  say,  Jin 
ny,  'tain't  much  honeyin'  roun'  she's  eber  been  boddered  wid, 
I  reckon."  And  the  two  women  laughed,  though  restraining 
themselves  to  low  tones,  with  the  innate  civility  of  their  race. 

Meanwhile  it  was  taking  Minerva  Poindexter  the  entire 
distance  of  the  walk  home  to  compose  herself  after  that 
dancing,  and  more  especially  after  the  unseemly  amplitude 
of  the  two  large,  comely  black  women,  an  amplitude  which 


260  EAST  ANGELS. 

she  would  have  confined  immediately,  if  she  had  had  the 
power,  in  gowns  of  firm  fibre  made  after  a  straight  fash 
ion  she  knew,  in  which,  by  means  of  a  system  of  restrictive 
seams  in  unexpected  places,  the  modeller  was  able  to  neutral 
ize  the  effect  of  even  the  most  expansive  redundancy. 

At  present  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  absorbing  the  time  of 
Margaret,  Celestine,  Evert  Winthrop ;  of  Betty  Carew,  who, 
sending  Garda  to  stay  with  the  Moores,  remained  with  dear 
Katrina;  of  Dr.  Kirby,  who  paid  three  visits  a  day;  of  Te- 
lano,  Cyndy,  Matim  Jube,  and  Aunt  Dinah-Jim,  who  had 
transferred  herself  and  her  disorderly  skill  to  the  kitchen  of 
the  eyrie.  During  the  only  other  serious  illness  Katrina 
Rutherford  had  known,  one  of  her  friends  had  remarked, 
"  Oh,  she's  such  a  philanthropist !" 

"Philanthropist?"  said  another,  inquiringly. 

"Yes;  she  has  such  a  wonderful  talent  for  employing 
people.  That's  philanthropy  nowadays,  you  know,  and  I 
think  Katrina  could  employ  the  whole  town." 

Looth  arriving,  still  redundant  but  spotlessly  neat  in  a 
loose  white  linen  short-gown  over  a  brilliant  yellow  cotton 
skirt,  a  red  handkerchief  arranged  as  a  turban,  white  stock 
ings,  and  broad,  low  shoes  (which  were  soundless),  supplied 
an  element  of  color  at  the  eyrie,  as  well  as  abundant  tact,  a 
sweet,  cooing  voice,  and  soft  strong  arms  for  lifting.  She 
called  Mrs.  Rutherford  "  honey,"  and  changed  her  position 
skilfully  and  sympathetically  twenty  times  a  day.  Mrs. 
Rutherford  liked  the  skill ;  even  better  she  liked  the  sym 
pathy  ;  she  had  often  complained  that  there  was  very  little 
true  sensibility  in  either  Margaret  or  Celestine.  To  hear  and 
see  Looth  persuade  her  patient  to  cat  her  dinner  was  a  daily 
entertainment  to  Winthrop.  It  was  the  most  persuasive 
coaxing  ever  heard,  and  Mrs.  Rutherford,  while  never  once 
losing  her  martyr  expression,  greatly  enjoyed  it ;  there  was 
some  different  method  of  tender  urging  for  each  dish.  Ce 
lestine,  who  was  not  a  jealous  person,  looked  on  with  deep 
though  concealed  interest,  never  failing  to  be  in  the  room, 
apparently  engaged  with  something  else,  when  Looth  ap 
peared  with  the  tray.  Though  she  understood  her  mistress's 
foibles  perfectly,  she  was  at  heart  fond  of  her  (she  had 
dressed  her  too  long  not  to  be),  and  would  have  felt  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  26J. 

business  in  life  at  an  end  if  separated  from  her;  yet  she 
could  no  more  have  called  her  "  my  dove,"  and  cooed  over 
her  with  soft  enthusiasm  when  she  had  eaten  a  slice  of  veni 
son,  than  she  could  have  danced  at  noon  barelegged  in  the 
dusty  road. 

But  in  spite  of  all  these  helpers,  Mrs.  Rutherford  did  not 
improve;  if  she  did  not  grow  worse,  she  did  not  grow  bet 
ter.  At  last  she  declared  that  she  should  never  grow,  better 
so  long  as  she  must  hear,  day  and  night,  the  wash  of  the 
water  on-the  beach ;  now  it  was  only  a  teasing  ripple,  which 
still  she  must  listen  for,  now  a  long  regular  swell,  to  which 
she  found  herself  forced  mentally  to  beat  time.  As  they 
could  not  take  away  the  sea — even  Looth  could  not  coo  it 
away— there  was  some  uneasiness  at  the  eyrie  as  to  what  the 
result  would  be ;  they  decided  that  it  was  but  a  fancy,  and 
that  she  would  forget  it.  But  Katrina  Rutherford  did  not 
forget.  At  length  there  came  three  nights  in  succession 
during  which  she  did  not  sleep  "a  moment;"  she  announced 
to  \Vinthrop  that  she  should  soon  be  in  need  of  no  more 
sleep,  "  save  the  last  long  one."  Dr.  Kirby,  who  still  pro 
foundly  admired  her — she  continued  to  look  very  handsome 
after  Celestine  had  attired  her  for  the  day  in  a  dressing- 
gown  of  delicate  hue,  covered  with  white  lace,  a  dainty  lit 
tle  lace  cap  lightly  resting  on  her  soft  hair — Dr.  Kirby  said 
to  Winthrop  that  unstrung  nerves  were  a  serious  matter ;  and 
that  though  her  idea  about  the  water  was  a  fancy,  of  course, 
the  loss  of  three  nights'  sleep  was  anything  but  fanciful. 
They  could  not  move  the  sea ;  but  they  could  move  her,  and 
they  must.  The  next  question  was — where?  The  Seminole 
being  as  near  the  water  as  the  eyrie,  there  was  nothing  to 
be  gained  by  going  there.  Betty  promptly  offered  her 
house,  she  was  full  of  plans  for  taking  in  their  whole  party 
under  her  hospitable  roof.  But  Mrs.  Rutherford  confided 
to  her  nephew  that  the  constant  sighing  of  the  pines  round 
Betty's  domicile  would  be  as  "maddening"  as  the  water,  if 
not  worse.  "I'd  much  rather  they'd  howl !"  she  said. 

Then  came  old  Mrs.  Kirby  in  her  black  silk  visitc,  her  par 
asol  held  high  above  her  head,  and  with  mathematical  pre 
cision  directly  over  it,  though  the  afternoon  sun,  slanting 
from  the  west,  shone  steadily  into  her  eyes  underneath,  so 


262  EAST  ANGELS. 

that  she  was  kept  winking  and  blinking  all  the  way.  She 
came  to  offer  their  residence;  the  full  half  of  it  stood  emp 
ty,  and,  needless  to  say  that  she  and  Reginald  would  be 
"  right  glad  "  if  the  ladies  would  accept  it.  But  Mrs.  Ruth 
erford  confided,  to  Margaret  this  time,  that  nothing  would 
induce  her  to  go  there.  "She  would  be  sure  to  come  in  ev 
ery  day  with  cookies  hidden  somewhere  about  her,  and  then 
nibble." 

"They're  wafers,  I  think,"  said  Margaret,  laughing. 

"  Wafers  or  cookies,  she  crunches  when  she  eats  them  ; 
I've  heard  her,"  Mrs.  Rutherford  declared.  "  It's  all  very 
well  for  you  to  laugh,  Margaret ;  you  have  no  sensitiveness. 
I  wish  I  had  a  cooky  now,"  she  went  on,  irrelevantly — "a 
real  one;  or  else  a  jumble,  or  a  cruller,  or  an  oley-koek. 
But  there's  no  getting  anything  in  this  desolate  place;  their 
one  idea  is  plum-cake — plum-cake!" 

Mrs.  Kirby  was  followed  by  Mr.  Moore,  who  brought  a 
note  from  his  wife,  cordially  placing  at  the  disposal  of  the 
northern  party  "  five  pleasant  rooms  at  the  rectory,"  which 
could  be  made  ready  for  them  at  any  time  upon  shortest 
notice. 

"They  haven't  more  than  six  in  all,"  commented  Win- 
throp.  "Does  this  mean,  do  you  suppose,  that  they  intend 
to  shut  themselves  up  into  one,  and  give  up  to  us  all  the 
rest?" 

"Very  probably,"  Margaret  answered. 

But  the  Moorcs  were  not  obliged  to  make  good  their  gen 
erous  offer.  Mrs.  Rutherford  said  that  she  could  not  possi 
bly  live  in  the  house  with  an  invalid.  "Always  little  messes 
being  carried  clinking  up-stairs  on  waiters,  or  left  standing 
outside  of  doors  for  people  to  tumble  over;  —  cups,  with 
dregs  of  tea  in  them,  set  into  each  other.  Horrid  !" 

"But  there  are  no  stairs  at  the  rectory,"  suggested  Win- 
throp. 

".Don't  be  owlish,  Evert;  one  is  even  more  apt  to  step 
into  them  on  a  ground-floor,"  replied  the  aunt. 

Meanwhile  the  sea  still  washed  the  beach  under  the  eyrie, 
and  now,  too,  the  nerves  of  almost  everybody  in  it,  for  nei 
ther  Margaret  nor  Celestine  could  sleep  when  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford  could  not;  even  Wintlirop,  at  the  Scminolr,  found  him- 


EAST  ANGELS.  263 

self  wakeful,  listening  to  the  little  soft  sound,  and  thinking* 
of  his  suffering  aunt.  For  in  spite  of  her  fancies  and  her 
fairly  good  appetite,  in  spite  of  her  rich  dressing-gowns  and 
carefully  arranged  hair,  Aunt  Katrina  undoubtedly  did  suf 
fer.  Already  her  eyes  had  begun  to  have  something  of  a  sunk 
en  look ;  to  Margaret  and  Winthrop  she  appeared  sometimes 
to  be  seeing  them  through  a  slight  haze,  and  to  be  trying, 
though  ineffectually,  to  pierce  it.  "That  dreadful  water  on 
the  beach !  that  dreadful  water !"  was  still  her  constant  corn- 
plaint. 

"Do  you  think  she  would  like  to  go  down  to  East  An 
gels?"  suggested  Dr.  Kirby  to  Margaret  one  morning.  "The 
motion  of  a  carriage  she  couldn't  bear  at  present,  but  she 
could  go  down  very  well  in  the  Emperadora" 

But  Margaret  thought  she  would  not  like  it  at  all. 

"  How  do  you  know,  without  asking,  what  I  shouldn't 
like  at  all  ?"  Aunt  Katrina  demanded  when  Margaret  repeated 
to  her  this  little  conversation.  Aunt  Katrina  liked  to  have 
the  little  conversations  repeated.  "  Don't  imagine,  Margaret, 
I  beg,  that  you  know  all  my  feelings  by  intuition." 

Later  in  the  day  came  Evert.  "Dr.  Kirby  has  a  fantastic 
plan  for  your  going  down  to  East  Angels  to  stay  for  a  while, 
Aunt  Katrina.  But  I  told  him  that  you  didn't  like  East 
Angels." 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  idea?  But  of  course  from  Mar 
garet,  who  thinks  she  knows  everything.  East  Angels  is  a 
charming  old  place." 

"  Oh !"  said  her  nephew,  rather  astonished,  remembering 
various  adjectives  she  had  applied  to  it;  "decayed"  had 
been  a  favorite  one. 

"I  have  always  thought  it  charming,"  pursued  the  lady. 
And  then  she  began  to  enumerate  its  good  points.  It  was 
too  far  from  the  lagoon  to  be  troubled  by  that  tiresome 
sound  of  the  water;  it  had  no  pines  near  it  to  tease  people 
to  death  with  their  sighing ;  there  would  be  no  old  ladies  to 
drop  in  with  cookies,  and  nibble ;  and  there  were  no  invalids, 
with  teacups  being  sent  clinking  np-stairs  (Mrs.  Rutherford 
herself  drank  chocolate).  The  one  objection  was  that  Dr. 
Reginald  would  have  a  long  ride  every  morning  to  get  to  her. 
But  Dr.  Reginald,  coming  in  at  this  moment,  gallantly  vol- 


'264  EAST  ANGELS. 

unteercd,  in  case  she  should  go  down  there,  to  spend  a  week 
with  them  by  way  of  beginning;  in  the  evenings  they  could 
play  cribbage  until  she  should  feel  drowsy,  for  she  certainly 
would  feel  drowsy  down  there  among  the — he  had  almost 
said  "  pines,"  but  stopped  in  time ;  then  he  thought  of  live- 
oaks,  but  remembered  that  she  considered  them  "  dreary." 
Among  the  —  he  had  nearly  brought  out  "magnolias,"  but 
recollected  that  she  disliked  their  perfume.  "  Among  the 
andromedas,"  he  concluded  at  last,  pronouncing  the  word 
firmly,  determined  not  to  abandon  it. 

"  Oh,  andromedas.  Aromatic  ?"  inquired  the  patient,  lan 
guidly. 

"Immensely  so,"  replied  the  Doctor.     "  Im — mensely !" 

The  next  day,  coming  in  again  and  finding  that  the  poor 
lady  had  passed  another  bad  night,  and  that  at  half-past  nine 
in  the  morning  she  had  burst  into  tears,  and  called  Looth 
her  "  only  friend,"  as  that  turbaned  handmaid  was  feeding 
her  with  toast  and  the  softest  sympathy,  he  took  Winthrop 
to  the  north  piazza  and  seriously  advised  the  change. 

"But  East  Angels  is  still  Garda's,"  said  Winthrop.  "I 
don't  see  how  we  can  go  there." 

"  She  will  be  delighted  to  have  yon.  I  don't  think  Garcia 
is  happy  at  present  when  long  separated  from  Mrs.  Harold," 
went  on  the  speaker,  candidly  ;  "  Mrs.  Harold  has  had  a  won 
derfully  cheering  influence  over  her,  poor  child,  since  her 
mother's  death.  Garcia  has  been  so  unlike  herself — I  hardly 
know  what  to  call  it — passive,  perhaps;  I  presume  you  have 
not  noticed  the  change,  but  ma  and  I  have." 

Winthrop  thought  he  had  noticed.  But  all  he  said  was: 
"  WTe  should  have  to  send  down  the  servants,  and — and  a 
good  many  other  things,  I'm  afraid.  The  party  would  be 
large,  it  would  be  like  taking  possession— so  many  of  us." 

"Don't  let  that  trouble  you,"  said  the  Doctor,  balancing 
himself  in  his  old  way.  "  In  the  matter  of  guests,  our  feel 
ing  here  has  always  been  that  the  more  we  had  under  our 
roof  the  better:  yes,  the  better." 

"  It  is  true  that  the  place  is  to  be  mine  as  soon  as  I  can 
get  a  title.  You  are  the  guardian ;  perhaps  you  will  allow 
us  to  rent  it  until  then  ?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  stopping  his  balancing,  "we  will 


EAST  ANGELS.  265 

not  speak  of  rent."  (And  in  truth  rent  was  not  a  word  es 
teemed  in  Gracias.  Nobody  "rented"  there,  and  nobody 
"  boarded ;"  each  man  lived  in  his  own  house,  and  sat  at 
his  own  table ;  the  roof  might  be  in  need  of  repairs,  and  the 
table  bare,  but  they  were  at  least  his  own.)  "As  you  have 
remarked,  I  am  Miss  Thome's  guardian,  and  as  such  I  can  as 
sure  you  that  she  will  be  right  glad  to  entertain  you  all  at 
East  Angels,  and  for  as  long  a  time  as  it  will  be  agreeable  to 
you  to  so  favor  her." 

Thus  it  was  arranged ;  they  were  all  to  pay  Garda  a  visit. 
It  was  to  be  ignored  that  workmen  were  to  be  sent  down  to 
the  old  house,  and  the  resources  of  Gracias-a-Dios  strained  to 
the  utmost  to  make  the  rooms  accord  with  the  many  require 
ments  of  Mrs.  Rutherford  ;  it  was  to  be  ignored  that  six  serv 
ants  and  supplies  of  all  kinds  were  to  be  added.  Garda  ap 
peared  at  the  eyrie  and  gave  her  invitation.  She  seemed  to 
think  of  it  in  the  same  way  that  the  Doctor  did — it  was  a  vis 
it;  she  had  all  the  air  of  a  hostess,  though  rather  a  listless  one. 

Nothing  in  this  young  girl  had  Margaret  Harold  admired 
more  than  the  untroubled  way  in  which  she  had  accepted 
her  new  friend's  assistance.  Mrs.  Rutherford,  who  was  in 
dustrious  in  prodding  for  motive  (she  considered  it  a  praise 
worthy  industry),  had  long  ago  announced  that  Garda's  af 
fection  for  Margaret  was  based  upon  her  own  pennilessness 
and  Margaret's  fortune.  If  this  were  so,  there  was  at  least 
no  eagerness  about  it ;  the  girl  accepted  all  that  Margaret 
did,  simply  ;  sweetly  enough,  but  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
funeral  expenses  had  been  paid  by  the  Gracias  friends,  they 
had  claimed  this  as  their  privilege ;  but  since  then  Margaret 
had  provided  for  everything,  from  Garda's  new  mourning 
garb  to  the  money  for  the  daily  house-keeping  at  East  An 
gels — sums  which  Betty  Carew  had  disbursed  with  her  nicest 
care,  which  was  yet  a  mad  expenditure  when  compared  with 
the  economies  of  Mrs.  Thome.  The  lean,  clean  larder  of  East 
Angels  had  had  a  sense  of  repletion  that  was  almost  profli 
gate,  and  had  felt  itself  carried  wildly  back  to  the  days  of 
Old  Madam — who  had  spent  the  last  of  the  Duero  capital 
in  making  herself  comfortable,  smiling  back  wickedly  at  the 
blue  eyes  of  Melissa  Whiting  when  the  latter  had  tried  to 
save  some  of  it. 


266  EAST  ANGELS. 

Margaret  could  not  but  contrast  Garda's  simple  way  with 
the  scruples,  the  inward  distress,  which  she  herself  should 
have  been  a  victim  to  if  she  had  been  placed  at  that  age  in 
such  a  situation,  thrown  entirely  upon  the  care  of  a  compar 
ative  stranger,  at  best  a  new  friend.  But  here  was  a  nature 
which  could  accept  unreservedly ;  it  seemed  to  her  a  noble 
trait ;  she  said  this  to  Mrs.  Rutherford  in  answer  to  one  of 
that  lady's  attacks. 

"  If  the  positions  were  to  be  reversed,  Aunt  Katrina,  I  am 
sure  she  would  be  just  the  same,  she  would  give  in  the  way 
in  which  she  now  accepts;  she  would  share  everything  with 
me  with  the  same  unreserve,  and  without  a  second  thought." 

"Give  me  the  second  thoughts,  then !"  said  Aunt  Katrina. 
"  I  must  say  I  cannot  see  the  nobility  in  it  that  you  and 
Evert  see."  (This  was  quite  true ;  Aunt  Katrina  never  saw 
nobility.)  "  The  girl  has  always  had  what  she  wanted,  and 
she's  got  it  now  ;  that's  all  there  is  of  it.  Evert  talks  about 
her  being  so  contented ;  most  of  us  are  contented,  I  suppose, 
when  every  wish  is  gratified,  and  if  you  would  look  at  it 
fairly,  without  all  this  decoration  you  have  added  to  it,  you 
would  see  that  hers  have  always  been.  Evert  brings  up  their 
poverty — it  has  all  come  out,  of  course,  since  the  mother's 
death.  But,  poor  or  not  poor,  Garda  at  least  always  had 
what  she  wanted;  there  were  always  honey-cakes  and  oranges 
for  her,  and  those  old  servants  would  wait  upon  her  when 
they  would  not  speak  to  her  mother.  She  has  never  lifted 
her  hand  to  do  anything  in  her  life  but  swing  in  her  ham 
mock,  smell  her  roses,  and  play  with  that  crane.  Evert  keeps 
harping — what  simple  things  they  were  to  give  her  so  much 
pleasure.  But  somebody  had  to  work  to  keep  up  even  the 
'simple  things;'  and  that  somebody  was  her  mother.  Sim 
ple — of  course  they  were  simple,  she  has  been  brought  up  in 
the  country,  and  she  is  only  sixteen ;  she  lias  had  no  oppor 
tunity  to  see  anything  else.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
laziness  which  is  shown  by  that  hammock,  and  the  epicurean 
ism  which  comes  out  in  the  honey-cakes  and  oranges,  yes, 
and  the  roses  too,  and  the  frivolity  which  makes  her  rind 
amusement  by  the  hour  in  playing  with  that  dreadful  crane 
— all  these  are  a  very  pretty  development  of  temperament  in 
a  o-ii'l  of  that  ao-e." 


EAST  ANGELS.  267 

Over  tins  dark  picture  Margaret  was  unable  to  resist  a 
laugh. 

"Laugh  on,"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  ominously.  "You  will 
live  to  come  to  my  opinion." 

But  Margaret  continued  to  think  Garda's  free  acceptance 
the  sign  of  a  generous  nature ;  the  girl  judged  her  benefac 
tress  by  herself ;  if  she  had  been  the  one  to  bestow  the  kind 
ness,  she  would  not  have  liked  effusive  thanks;  Margaret 
therefore  would  not  like  them  either. 

But  if  Garda  did  not  turn  the  conversation  towards  Mar 
garet's  material  gifts,  she  did  turn  it,  and  warmly,  upon  the 
delight  it  was  to  her  that  her  friend  was  to  be  at  East  An 
gels  ;  upon  that  point  she  was  effusive  enough.  "Now  I  can 
live,"  she  said. 

44  There's  something  so  tiresome  in  being  with  Aunt  Betty 
Carew  day  after  day,"  she  added,  meditatively.  "  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

44  She  has  been  extremely  kind  to  you,"  Margaret  answered. 

44  Yes,  she's  very  kind,  there's  nobody  kinder.  That  doesn't 
make  her  any  the  less  wandering  in  her  conversation,  does  it? 
or  any  the  less  flushed.  Do  you  remember  how  pretty  my 
dear  little  mother  was?  She  had  such  a  nice  straight'little 
nose  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  her.  You  have  a  lovely 
nose  too,  Margaret ;  I  wonder  if  I  should  have  liked  you  so 
well  without  it?  Oh,  won't  you  stay  at  East  Angels  until  it 
is  time  to  go  north  ?  In  that  way,  as  I  am  to  go  with  you, 
we  shouldn't  be  separated  at  all." 

44  Aunt  Katrina  may  tire  of  East  Angels  in  two  days," 
Margaret  answered. 

44  We  won't  allow  it.  We'll  amuse  her!"  Garda  declared, 
with  soft  energy. 

But  something  else  was  to  amuse  poor  Aunt  Katrina.  She 
made  the  little  journey  comfortably,  one  beautiful  morning, 
on  the  Emperadora,  surrounded  by  her  retinue,  of  which 
Betty  was  one;  she  enjoyed  her  installation,  and  the  novelty 
of  the  new  rooms;  she  enjoyed  the  congratulations  of  Dr. 
Kirby,  when,  later  in  the  day",  he  came  down  for  his  week's 
visit;  and  she  played  cribbage  with  him  for  a  little  while  in 
the  evening.  Her  nephew  too  was  there;  she  had  required 
his  presence.  44  You  must  come,  of  course,  Evert,"  she  said  ; 


268  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  I  couldn't  possibly  stay  way  down  in  that  lonely  place  with 
out  you."  So  Evert  had  been  obliged  to  install  himself  as 
well  as  his  aunt ;  he  took  up  his  abode  not  unwillingly  in  the 
old  house  which  he  expected  some  day  to  own. 

After  the  cribbage,  Aunt  Katrina  went  to  bed,  and  passed 
a  night  of  blessed  oblivion,  unteased  by  the  whining  water: 
that  had  been  her  latest  term  for  it — that  it  whined.  But 
after  a  few  days  of  this  delightful  rest,  a  fresh  assortment  of 
pains  lifted  their  heads.  The  Doctor  at  first  alluded  to  them 
as  rheumatic.  But  Aunt  Katrina  would  not  accept  that  sug 
gestion.  He  then  called  them  "  suppressed  gout."  This  was 
better;  Aunt  Katrina  had  always  had  a  certain  esteem  for 
gout.  Besides,  suppressed  gout  had  no  fixed  habitation ; 
Aunt  Katrina,  having  very  shapely  feet,  took  the  opportunity, 
the  very  day  she  accepted  the  name,  to  have  herself  lifted  to 
the  sofa,  where  these  same  members,  in  delicate  slippers,  re 
posed  upon  a  bear -skin,  only  half  concealed  by  an  India 
shawl. 

But  these  little  vanities  could  be  forgiven,  they  could  even 
be  encouraged  (and  were  by  the  quick-witted  Looth),  if  they 
had  the  power  to  make  her  forget  her  pain.  This  pain  was 
of  the  kind  she  herself  described  as  "  wearing."  Fortunately 
it  was  not  constant,  there  were  many  free  intervals;  but  dur 
ing  these  intervals  she  was  often  tired,  and  Katrina  Ruther 
ford  had  lived  such  an  easy,  comfortable  life  that  she  had 
almost  never  been  tired  before.  This  fatigue  after  pain 
sometimes  extended  to  her  mind,  and  made  her  irritable. 
On  these  days  no  one  could  soothe  her  but  Margaret,  and  it 
was  soon  discovered  that  no  one  must  try.  Margaret  must 
read  to  her,  read  her  to  sleep  ;  Margaret  must  sit  in  a  certain 
place,  and  sit  still;  she  must  not  leave  the  room;  nobody 
must  speak  to  her  but  Margaret — the  others  could  say  what 
was  necessary  through  her.  During  one  of  her  free  intervals 
she  explained  to  Winthrop  that  it  was  Margaret's  voice  that 
soothed  her ;  "  it's  so  hard,"  she  said. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  that  quality  would  be  particularly 
soothing,"  Winthrop  answered. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it's  the  very  one — that  is,  for  me.  I 
only  need  her  when  I've  been  reduced  to  a  pulp — like  the 
pulp  in  the  paper  mills — by  pain  ;  at  such  times  that  hard 


EAST  ANGELS.  269 

voice  of  hers  is  the  first  firm  thing  I  can  take  hold  of;  I 
crystallize  round  it  by  degrees,  don't  you  know,  and  gradual 
ly  get  back  some  shape  again." 

Margaret's  voice  was  not  in  the  least  hard  ;  it  was  low  and 
clear ;  when  it  took  on  certain  intonations,  very  sweet.  But 
Winthrop  did  not  remind  his  aunt  of  this.  She  could  crys 
tallize  round  any  adjectives  that  pleased  her  in  her  moments 
of  rest;  her  nephew's  usual  championship  of  justice  was  post 
poned  until  she  should  be  better. 

During  this  time  Celestine  and  Looth  were  often  obliged 
to  be  companions;  there  were  certain  things  they  each  did 
which  no  one  else  could  do  as  well,  and  therefore  neither 
one  could  be  spared.  To  Celestine  it  was  a  weird  experience, 
this  sitting  up  at  night  in  the  large  bare  room  of  a  strange 
old  Spanish  house  (a  house  which  had  been  inhabited  for 
generations  by  Papists),  opposite  a  great  black  woman  in  a 
red  turban,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  dancing  barelegged  in 
the  roads  in  the  middle  of  the  day;  and  all  this  on  a  win 
ter  night  with  roses  blooming  outside  in  the  garden,  and  the 
perfume  of  orange  blossoms  coming  in  through  the  half- 
closed  windows — a  winter  night  which  seemed  to  have  gone 
astray  from  some  other  world.  The  absence  of  cold  in  win 
ter  climates  abroad  Celestine  had  accepted  without  opposi 
tion  ;  it  was  only  part  of  their  general  outlandishness.  But 
that  such  foreign  eccentricities  should  exist  in  the  United 
States  of  America,  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  this  she  by 
no  means  approved ;  like  many  other  persons,  she  could  not 
help  believing  that  frost-tipped  noses  were  an  accompaniment 
of  republican  simplicity  and  virtue,  and  that  a  good  conscience 
and  east  wind  could  not  be  long  separated  without  danger  to 
morals. 

She  had  never  alluded  to  the  dance.  But  one  night  Looth 
herself  alluded  to  it.  "  Specks  yer  seen  us,  Miss  Selsty,  dat 
day  you  wuz  firs'  down  dar  fur  to  ax  me  to  come  up  yer  to 
nuss — specks  yer  seen  me  an'  Jinny?" 

Celestine  nodded  grimly  :  a  confession  was  evidently  on 
the  way. 

"  Yessum,  Miss  Selsty,  I  reckoned  yer  seen  us.  We  wuz 
shoutin\"  Looth  went  on,  with  gentle  satisfaction.  "  I's  a  very 
rilligeous  'oman,  Miss  Selsty,  ycssum.  An'  so's  Jinny  too." 


270  EAST  ANGELS. 

All  the  Gracias  friends  came  down  often  to  East  Angels 
to  inquire  after  Mrs.  Rutherford ;  Madam  Ruiz  and  Madam 
Giron  came  over  from  their  respective  plantations.  Adolfo 
Torres,  however,  did  not  come;  he  remained  at  home,  and 
sent  his  respectful  inquiries  by  his  aunt.  Neither  the  Doctor 
nor  Mr.  Moore  had  betrayed  his  secret ;  these  two  gentlemen 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  betraying  anybody.  Torres  did  not 
altogether  like  their  reticence  upon  this  particular  occasion, 
he  could  not  see  that  it  was  a  subject  upon  which  reticence 
was  required.  In  the  old  days  (the  only  days  he  cared  about) 
the  position  of  suitor,  devoted  suppliant  for  his  lady's  hand, 
was  an  honorable  one,  one  distinctly  recognized ;  he  should 
like  to  be  recognized  as  occupying  it  now.  But  if  these 
friends  would  not  tell,  he  could  not;  to  tell  would  not  ac 
cord  with  his  present  posture.  "  Posture "  was  his  own 
word,  no  one  else  would  have  dreamed  of  applying  it  to  any 
thing  connected  with  this  self-controlled  young  man.  Gra 
cias,  too,  was  having  veritable  postures  of  another  kind  to 
look  at.  These  were  the  attitudes  of  Manuel  Ruiz,  which 
were  very  new  and  surprising.  After  that  first  burst  of  fury 
(which  Torres  had  witnessed)  he  had  taken  to  riding  over 
the  barren  at  headlong  speed  on  his  large,  thin  black  horse, 
with  several  knives  stuck  in  his  belt — a  belt  whose  presence 
(in  itself  brigandish)  he  had  further  emphasized  by  tying 
over  it  a  crimson  sash.  Next  he  had  suddenly  appeared  as 
a  man  of  dissipations,  a  scoffer;  he  haunted  the  two  small, 
rather  sleepy  bar-rooms  of  Gracias,  smoking  large  cigars, 
wearing  his  sombrero  much  on  one  side,  and  in  public  places 
— the  plaza  for  instance — made  cynical  remarks  about  "the 
fair  sex."  This  was  worse  even  than  the  knives  and  the 
galloping,  and  Gracias  was  considering  what  had  better  be 
done,  when,  lo !  Manuel  appeared  among  them  playing  a 
third  part.  He  was  not  only  himself,  but  more  mellifluous 
even  than  he  had  ever  been  before;  his  manner,  indeed,  when 
he  met  any  of  these  ladies,  had  in  it  such  a  delicate  yet  keen 
ly  personal  admiration,  such  an  appreciation  of  what  they 
had  been  as  well  as  of  what  they  were,  that  all  of  them,  even 
stout,  honest  Betty,  and  little  Mrs.  Kirby  herself,  under  her 
high-held  parasol,  were  set  to  blushing  a  little,  without  know 
ing  why,  and  to  vaguely  adjusting  their  front  hair  with  a 


EAST  ANGELS.  271 

toncli  or  two,  only  to  become  conscious  of  it  later,  and  say 
to  themselves,  angrily,  that  that  boy  ought  to  have  a  good 
horsewhipping!  Manuel  called  upon  all  his  friends  and  all 
his  mother's  friends  (except  Garda  at  East  Angels),  and 
could  hardly  sit  in  a  chair.  Upon  seeing  him,  the  idea  was 
that  he  had  been  accustomed  to  a  divan  ;  he  seemed  to  have 
come  from  the  sipping  of  nectar,  and  to  have  touched  noth 
ing  but  rose-leaves.  Having  thus  thrown  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
the  town,  he  took  his  departure ;  as  he  had  long  threatened, 
he  was  going  to  see  the  world.  He  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Har 
old  that  he  should  try  to  "  take  in  "  New  York  ;  and  then  he 
sailed  on  a  coasting  schooner  for  Key  West,  with  four  dol 
lars  and  twenty  five-cents  in  his  pocket. 

Gracias  knew  nothing  of  the  real  cause  of  all  this.  Madam 
Ruiz,  Manuel's  broad-shouldered  and  martial-looking,  but  in 
reality  sighingly  gentle,  sentimental  step-mother,  was  not  in 
his  confidence  with  regard  to  Garda.  But  she  would  not 
have  credited  the  story,  even  if  she  had  been,  for  she  firmly 
believed  her  handsome  step-son  to  be  invincible  from  the 
Everglades  to  the  Altamaha.  During  the  long,  warm,  mid 
summer  afternoons,  when  flat  Patricio,  low  in  the  blue  sea, 
had  not  a  shadow,  this  lady,  in  her  thick  white  house,  the 
broad  rooms  darkened  by  the  closed  shutters,  was  in  the 
habit  of  amusing  herself  with  many  romances  about  this ; 
for  your  warm,  still  countries  are  ever  the  land  of  the  story 
teller.  Madam  Ruiz  now  and  then  told  her  stories  to  her 
husband. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  that  gentleman  ;  "  he  inherits  it  all  from 
me."  He  was  partially  paralyzed,  and  sat  all  day  in  his 
chair ;  he  did  not  like  to  have  Manuel  about  much,  he  envied 
him  so.  He  took  more  comfort  in  the  children  of  this  sec 
ond  marriage  —  a  flock  of  brown -skinned,  chattering  little 
girls,  who  would  be  sure  to  grow  up  dark,  lovely,  and  gentle, 
with  serene,  affectionate  eyes,  and  the  sweetest  voices  in  the 
world,  in  which  to  call  him  their  "  dearest  papa." 

Adolfo  Torres  meanwhile  kept  his  friend's  secret  punctili 
ously,  as  it  was  not  to  his  credit;  it  was  terribly  against  his 
credit  to  have  gone  as  he  did  to  Garda  herself,'— so  Adolfo 
thought. 

As  for  Garda,  she  said,  afterwards,  that  she  did  not  men- 


272  EAST  ANGELS. 

tion  it  because  it  was  so  much  trouble;  she  did  not  like  to 
tell  things,  <she  was  not  a  narrator  (one  of  her  mother's 
phrases)  ;  besides  it  was  not  interesting-.  The  girl  had  a 
very  decided  idea  about  what  was  and  what  was  not  inter 
esting.  But  she  stopped  there,  she  did  not  explain  her  idea 
to  others;  she  had  the  air  of  not  even  explaining  it  to  her 
self. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

EVERT  WINTHROP  was  very  fond  of  the  pine  barrens. 
They  seemed  to  him  to  have  a  marked  character  of  their 
own ;  their  green  aisles  were  as  unlike  the  broad  roll  of  the 
prairie  as  they  were  unlike  the  usual  growth  of  the  American 
forest  farther  north.  The  pines  of  the  barren  stood  apart 
from  each  other,  they  were  not  even  in  clusters  or  pairs.  To 
a  northerner,  riding  or  walking  for  the  first  time  across  the 
broad  sun-barred  spaces  under  them,  the  feeling  was  that  this 
separated  growth  was  the  final  outer  fringe  of  some  thick 
forest  within,  that  it  would  soon  come  to  an  end,  widen  out, 
and  disappear.  But  it  never  did  disappear,  the  single  trees 
went  on  rising  in  the  same  thin  way  from  the  open  ground, 
they  continued  to  rise  for  miles ;  and  when  the  new-comer 
had  once  got  rid  of  the  idea  that  they  would  soon  stop,  when 
he  had  become  accustomed  to  the  sparse  growth,  it  seemed 
beautiful  in  a  way  of  its  own ;  as  slender  girls  will  some 
times  seem  more  exquisite  ,in  their  fair  meagreness  than  the 
m at u re r  women  about  them  with  their  sumptuous  shoulders 
and  arms. 

For  one  thing,  the  barrens  were  the  home  of  all  the 
breezes ;  winds  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  heavens  could 
sweep  through  their  aisles  as  freely  as  though  no  trees  were 
there,  the  foliage  was  so  far  above.  But  though  the  winds 
could  blow  as  they  liked,  they  yet  had  to  take  something 
of  the  influences  of  the  place  as  they  passed,  and  the  one 
they  took  oftenest  was  the  aromatic  odor,  odor  sun-warmed 
through  and  through,  never  chilled  by  ice  or  snow.  These 
odors  they  gathered  up  and  bore  along,  so  that  if  it  was  a 
breeze  from  the  south,  one  felt  like  sitting  still  and  breath- 


EAST  ANGELS.  273 

ing  the  soft  fragrance  forever;  and  if  it  was  a  north  wind, 
careering  down  the  vistas,  the  resinous  tang  it  carried  gave 
a  sort  of  excitement  which  could  find  its  best  expression  in 
the  gallop  of  a  fast  horse  over  the  levels.  At  least  so  Win- 
throp  thought.  And  he  had  often  been  guilty  of  riding  for 
miles  at  a  speed  which  he  would  not  have  acknowledged  at 
the  North;  it  seemed  boyish  to  ride  at  that  rate  for  the 
mere  sake  of  the  glow  and  the  spicy  wind  in  one's  face. 

The  barrens  were  always  green.  But  it  was  not  the  green 
of  the  northern  forest ;  it  was  the  dark,  tranquil,  unchanging 
hue  of  the.  South.  The  ground  was  covered  thickly  with 
herbage  and  little  shrubs.  Here  and  there  flower  stalks 
made  their  way  through,  pushing  themselves  up  as  high  as 
they  could  in  order  to  get  their  heads  out  in  the  sunshine ; 
there  they  swung  merrily  to  and  fro,  and  looked  about  them 
— violets  so  broad  and  bright  that  one  could  recognize  their 
bluencss  at  a  distance,  red  bells  of  the  calopogon,  the  yel 
low  and  lavender  of  pinguiculas  rising  from  their  prim  little 
rosettes  of  leaves  down  below  ;  near  the  pools  the  pitcher- 
plants;  nearer  still,  hiding  in  thickets,  the  ferns.  These 
pools  were  a  wonder.  How  came  they  there  in  so  dry  a 
land  ?  For  the  barrens  were  pure  white  sand  ;  each  narrow 
road,  where  the  exterior  mat  of  green  had  been  worn  away, 
was  a  dry  white  track  in  which  the  foot  sank  warmly.  The 
pools  were  there,  however,  and  in  abundance.  Though  shal 
low,  their  clear  water  had  a  rich  hue  like  that  of  dark  red 
wine.  Those  on  horseback  or  in  a  cart  went  through  them, 
the  little  silver-white  descent  on  one  side  to  get  to  them,  and 
the  ascent  on  the  other,  forming  the  only  "  hills"  the  barrens 
knew ;  for  those  on  foot,  a  felled  pine-tree  sometimes  served 
as  a  bridge. 

The  trails,  crossing  in  various  directions,  were  many,  they 
all  appeared  to  be  old.  One  came  upon  them  unexpectedly, 
often  they  were  not  visible  in  the  low  shrubbery  three  feet 
away.  Once  found,  they  were  definite  enough ;  they  never 
became  merged  in  the  barren,  or  stopped ;  they  always  went 
sleepily  on  and  on,  they  did  not  appear  themselves  to  know 
whither.  And  certainly  no  one  else  knew,  as  Winthrop 
found  when  occasionally,  he  being  more  lost  than  usual  (on 
the  barrens  he  was  always  lost  to  a  certain  degree,  and  liked 

18 


274  EAST  ANGELS. 

it),  he  would  stop  his  horse  to  ask  of  a  passing  cracker  in 
what  direction  some  diverging  trail  would  take  him,  in  case 
he  should  follow  it.  The  cracker,  astride  his  sorry  pony, 
would  stare  at  him  open-mouthed;  but  he  never  knew. 
Packed  into  the  two-wheeled  cart  behind  him,  all  his  family, 
with  their  strange  clay -colored  complexions  and  sunburnt 
light  hair,  would  stare  also ;  and  they  never  knew.  They 
were  a  gentle,  mummy-like  people,  too  indolent  even  to  won 
der  why  a  stranger  should  wish  to  know ;  they  stared  at  him 
with  apathetic  eyes,  and  then  passed  on,  not  once  turning 
their  heads,  even  the  children,  for  a  second  look.  But  as  a 
general  thing  Winthrop  rode  on  without  paying  heed  to  the 
direction  he  was  taking ;  he  could  always  guide  himself  back 
after  a  fashion  by  the  pocket-compass  he  carried. 

One  afternoon  Winthrop,  out  on  the  barren,  saw  in  the 
distance  a  horse  and  phaeton.  There  was  no  phaeton  in  all 
that  country  but  his  aunt's.  He  rode  across  to  see  who  was 
in  it.  To  his  surprise  it  was  Garcia ;  she  was  leaning  indo 
lently  back  on  the  cushioned  seat,  the  reins  held  idly  in  her 
hand,  an  immense  bunch  of  roses  fastened  in  her  belt.  The 
horse  was  one  he  did  not  know. 

"  Garda ! — this  you !"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  laughing  at  his  astonishment.  "  Ev 
erything  was  so  dull  at  the  house  that  I  thought  I  must  do 
something.  So  I  did  this." 

"  I  wasn't  aware  that  you  knew  how  to  drive  ?" 

"  This  isn't  driving." 

"  No,  I  hardly  think  it  is,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her  re 
clining  figure  and  the  loose  reins.  "  Where  are  you  going?" 

"  Ob,  I  don't  know." 

"  Whose  horse  have  you  ? — if  I  may  ask  another  question." 

"  Madam  Giron's ;  I  sent  Pablo  to  borrow  it,  as  I  did  not 
like  to  take  your  aunt's." 

"Then  they  know  what  you  are  doing?" 

"  Pablo  knows." 

"And  Margaret?" 

"  No,  Margaret  doesn't  know.  I  should  have  told  her,  of 
course,  if  I  could  have  seen  her,  or  rather,  if  I  could  have 
seen  her,  I  should  not  have  come  out  at  all.  But  that  was 
the  trouble — I  couldn't  see  her;  she  has  been  shut  up  in 


EAST  ANGELS.  275 

Mrs.  Rutherford's  room  ever  since  early  this  morning,  and 
there's  no  prospect,  according  to  Looth,  of  seeing  her  until 
to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  I  feared  my  aunt  was  going  to  have  one  of  her  bad 
days." 

"  Of  course  I'm  sorry,  but  that  doesn't  make  the  hours 
any  shorter,  that  I  know  of;  there  was  no  one  to  speak  to; 
even  you  were  away.  You  have  the  advantage  of  being 
able  to  leave  the  house  whenever  you  like,  and  staying  out 
forever." 

"  Well,  I've  turned  up  now." 

"  I  don't  want  you  now  ;  I've  '  turned  up '  myself.  Where 
are  you  going,  may  I  ask  in  my  turn  ?" 

"  Going  to  drive  you  home." 

44  Not  if  you  intend  to  tie  that  horse  of  yours  at  the  back 
of  the  phaeton,  where  he  will  nibble  my  shoulders  all  the 
way.  But  I'm  not  going  home  yet ;  haven't  I  told  you  how 
dull  it  was  there?  I'm  going  on." 

"  I  don't  know  about  letting  you  go  on  ;  I'm  not  satisfied 
with  the  look  of  that  horse." 

44  Yes,  he's  the  wildest  one  Madam  Giron  has ;  but  that 
isn't  very  wild,"  said  Garda,  in  a  tone  of  regret. 

"  You  are  already  over  four  miles  from  East  Angels — " 

"Delightful!" 

44 — and  if  you  won't  turn  round,  I  shall  have  to  follow 
you  on  horseback ;  I  shouldn't  have  a  clear  conscience  oth 
erwise." 

"Oh,  have  a  clear  conscience,  by  all  means." 

But  she  did  not  long  like  this  arrangement;  the  sound  of 
another  horse  behind  made  Madam  Giron's  horse  restless,  so 
that  she  could  not  keep  the  reins  lying  idle,  as  she  liked. 

44  Let  your  horse  go,  and  come  and  drive  me,"  she  said. 

"Let  him  go?     Where?" 

44  Home,  I  suppose." 

44  He  wouldn't  go;  he's  an  animal  of  intelligence,  and  of 
course  has  observed  that  he  could  lead  a  nomadic  life  here 
perfectly,  with  constant  summer,  and  water,  and  —  but  I 
can't  say  much  for  the  grass.  I  think,  however,  that  I  can 
arrange  it  so  that  he  shall  not  trouble  you."  And  dismount 
ing,  he  changed  and  lengthened  some  straps;  then  seating 


276  EAST  ANGELS. 

himself  in  the  phaeton  beside  her,  he  took  the  reins,  his  own 
horse  trotting  along  docielly  at  his  side  of  the  phaeton,  fast 
ened  by  a  long  line. 

"  It's  caravanish,"  said  Garda.  "  But  I'll  allow  it  because 
I  want  you  to  drive ;  it's  more  amusing  than  driving  myself." 

"  More  lazy,  you  mean." 

"  Yes ;  I  ran  away  to  be  lazy." 

"  For  a  variety  ?" 

She  did  not  take  this  up,  but,  leaning  back  still  further, 
half  closed  her  eyes. 

"  Have  you  often  been  out  in  this  way  on  the  barrens, 
driving  yourself  ?"  he  went  on. 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  driven — on  the  barrens 
or  anywhere  else." 

"  Yet  you  come  out  alone,  and  with  this  restless  horse ! 
I  never  knew  you  to  do  such  a  thing  before." 

"  That  only  shows  how  short  a  time  you  have  known  me ; 
I  always  like  to  do  things  I  have  never  done  before." 

The  phaeton  rolled  on  towards  the  west — on  and  on,  as 
she  would  not  let  him  turn.  But  he  did  not  wish  to  turn 
now ;  they  had  reached  a  part  of  the  barren  which  he  had 
not  visited,  though  he  had  ridden  to  much  greater  distances 
both  towards  the  north  and  the  south.  Here  were  wider 
pools ;  and  here  also  was  a  sluggish  narrow  stream ;  far  off 
on  the  left  rose  the  long  dark  line  of  the  great  cypresses  on 
the  edge  of  a  swamp.  The  sluggish  stream  at  length  crossed 
their  road,  or  rather  their  road  essayed  to  cross  the  sluggish 
stream ;  but  the  dark  water  looked  deep,  there  were  no  tracks 
of  wheels  on  the  little  descent  to  show  that  any  one  had 
tried  the  ford  lately  —  say  within  the  last  twenty  years. 
Winthrop  hesitated. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Garda. 

"But  I  might  have  to  swim  with  you  to  the  other  shore." 

"  Nothing  I  should  like  better." 

"To  see  me  soaked?" 

"  To  see  you  excited." 

"  That  wouldn't  excite  me ;  I  should  only  be  wet  and  de 
pressed.  In  any  case  it  is  time  for  us  to  turn  back." 

"  No,  I've  set  my  heart  upon  going  at  least  as  far  as  that 
rido-e."  And  she  indicated  a  little  rise  of  land  on  the  other 


EAST  ANGELS.  277 

side  of  the  stream,  whose  summit  was  covered  thickly  with 
Dr.  Kirby's  andromedas,  and  shining  laurel,  sprays  of  yellow 
jessamine,  bright  with  flowers,  pushing  through  the  darker 
green  and  springing  into  the  air.  "  There's  a  bridge,"  she 
added. 

Winthrop  turned;  a  felled  pine-tree,  roughly  smoothed, 
crossed  the  stream  a  short  distance  below  the  ford. 

"You  can  tie  the  horses  here,  and  we  will  walk  over," 
pursued  Garda. 

"Then  will  you  come  back?"  he  asked,  amused  by  her 
taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  always,  that  she  was  to  have 
her  own  way. 

"  Then  I  will  come  back." 

He  tied  the  horses  to  two  pine-trees,  some  distance  apart 
from  each  other.  Then  he  tried  the  bridge.  It  seemed 
firm.  Garda,  refusing  his  offers  of  assistance,  crossed  lightly 
and  fearlessly  behind  him.  Some  of  the  twigs  still  remained 
on  the  old  trunk,  and  she  lifted  her  skirt  so  that  they  should 
not  catch  upon  it  and  cause  her  to  stumble ;  when  they  had 
gone  nearly  three-quarters  of  the  distance,  Winthrop,  turning 
his  head  to  speak  to  her,  saw  that  she  wore  low  slippers, 
thin-soled  papery  little  shoes  fit  only  for  a  carpeted  floor. 
"You  must  not  go  among  the  bushes  in  those  shoes,"  he 
said.  "  The  bushes  over  there  are  sure  to  be  wet ;  all  that 
ground  is  wet." 

"  Don't  stop  on  the  bridge,"  said  Garda,  laughing. 

But  he  continued  to  bar  the  way.  "  I  will  bring  you  the 
flowers,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  want  the  flowers,  I  want  to  go  myself  to  the  top 
of  that  ridge,  and  look  down  on  the  other  side." 

"There's  nothing  to  see  on  the  other  side." 

"  That  makes  no  difference.     Go  on.     Go  on." 

He  turned  round ;  cautiously,  for  the  bridge  was  slippery 
and  narrow.  They  were  now  face  to  face. 

"  I  shall  never  yield,"  Garda  declared,  gayly.  "  But  I 
shall  make  you  yield.  Easily." 

"How?" 

"  By  telling  you  that  if  you  do  not  go  on,  I  shall  jump 
into  the  water,  and  get  to  the  other  bank  in  that  way." 

He  laughed.     But  as  he  did  so  he  suddenly  felt  a  con* 


278  EAST  ANGELS. 

viction  conic  over  him,  owing  to  an  expression  he  saw  in 
her  eyes,  that  she  was  capable  of  carrying  out  her  threat. 
He  seized  her  hands ;  but  she  wrested  them  from  his  grasp ; 
and  as  she  did  so  he  had  a  vision  of  her  figure  in  the  water 
below.  He  could  easily  rescue  her,  of  course ;  but  it  would 
be  a  situation  whose  pleasures  he  should  fail  to  appreciate, 
both  of  them  wet  through,  and  many  miles  from  home.  She 
had  no  sooner  freed  her  hands,  therefore,  than  he  took  a 
firmer  hold  of  her,  so  that  she  could  not  stir. 

iBut  she  still  openly  exulted ;  her  face,  close  to  his,  was 
brilliant  with  light  and  mirth.  "  That's  of  no  use,"  she  said. 
"You  cannot  possibly  walk  backward  on  this  narrow  tree, 
even  if  you  could  carry  me — which  I  doubt." 

It  was  true  that  his  back  was  towards  the  bank  which  was 
near,  the  one  they  had  been  approaching,  and  that  he  could 
not  make  his  way  thither  on  that  narrow  surface  without  see 
ing  where  he  was  going.  He  had  flushed  a  little  at  her  taunt. 
"  I  can  carry  you  back  to  the  side  we  started  from,"  he  said. 

"  No,  you  cannot  do  that,  cither.  For  I  could  easily  blind 
you  with  my  hands,  and  make  you  stumble." 

"Garda!— how  absurd!" 

"  Yes ;  but  it's  you  who  look  so,"  she  answered,  bursting 
into  a  peal  of  irrepressible  glee. 

Winthrop  had  the  feeling  that  she  might  be  right.  He 
knew  that  he  was  flushed  and  angry ;  no  man  likes  to  be 
laughed  at.  even  by  a  girl  of  sixteen.  Her  eyes,  though  over 
flowing  with  mirth,  had  still  an  unconquerable  look  in  them. 
Suddenly  he  released  her.  "  Your  actions  are  ridiculous," 
he  said;  "I  can  only  leave  you  to  yourself."  And  turning, 
he  crossed  to  the  near  bank.  He  had  successfully  resisted 
his  impulse,  which  had  been  to  take  her,  mocking  and  mirth 
ful  as  she  was,  and  carry  her  back  to  the  bank  from  which 
they  had  started;  he  felt  sure  that  he  could  have  done  it  in 
spite  of  any  resistance  she  might  have  offered. 

Garda  ran  after  him,  and  put  her  arm  in  his.  "Are  you 
vexed  with  me?"  she  said,  looking  up  coaxingly  in  his  face. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  old  enough  now,  Garda,  not  to 
act  so  much  like  a  child?" 

"  It  isn't  a  child,"  she  answered,  as  it  seemed  to  him  rather 
strangely.  "  I  shall  always  be  like  this." 


EAST  ANGELS.  279 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  never  intend  to  be  reasonable  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  intend,  I  don't  think  I  intend 
anything;  intending' s  a  trouble.  But  don't  be  angry  with 
me,"  she  went  on  ;  "  you  and  Margaret  are  all  I  have  now." 
And  she  looked  up  at  him  still  coaxingly,  but  this  time 
through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  I  arn  not  vexed,"  answered  Winthrop,  quickly.  "  Will 
you  have  the  kindness  to  glance  at  your  feet?"  he  added,  by 
way  of  diversion  into  another  channel. 

They  had  been  standing  among  the  low  bushes  on  the 
further  shore,  and  Garda  was  again  holding  her  skirt  slight 
ly  lifted;  her  thin  slippers  were  seen  to  be  as  completely 
drenched  as  though  they  had  been  in  the  stream.  "Yes, 
they're  wet,"  she  assented,  lifting  first  one,  and  then  the 
other,  so  as  to  get  a  good  view  ;  "they're  quite  wet  through, 
soles  and  all.  And,  do  you  know,  my  feet  are  already  very 
cold." 

"  And  we  have  still  the  long  drive  home !  You  must  ac 
knowledge  that  you  are  wise." 

At  this  moment  they  heard  a  sound,  and  turned ;  Madam 
Giron's  horse  had  broken  his  fastenings,  and  started  down 
the  barren,  the  phaeton  gently  rolling  along  behind  him. 
Winthrop  ran  across  the  pine-tree  bridge  and  after  him,  as 
swiftly  yet  as  noiselessly  as  he  could,  so  that  the  sound  of 
pursuit  should  not  increase  his  speed.  But  Madam  Giron's 
horse  enjoyed  a  run  on  his  own  account,  and  after  trotting 
for  a  while,  he  broke  into  the  pace  which  suited  him  best,  a 
long-stepped  easy  gallop ;  thus,  with  the  phaeton  bounding 
at  his  heels,  he  took  his  way  down  the  broad  green  vista, 
faster  and  faster,  yet  still  with  a  regular  motion,  which  was 
doubly  exasperating  because  it  seemed  so  much  more  like 
an  easy  gait  for  the  saddle  (which  it  was)  than  a  demoralized 
running  away.  At  length,  when  Winthrop  himself  had  run 
half  a  mile,  in  the  vain  hope  that  he  would  stop  or  turn, 
Madam  Giron's  steed  disappeared  in  the  distance,  having 
reached  and  gone  down,  Garda  said,  the  curve  of  the  earth, 
as  a  ship  does  at  sea. 

"  Isn't  it  funny  ?  What  are  we  going  to  do  now  ?"  she 
asked.  She  had  come  back  across  the  bridge  while  he  was 
vainly  pursuing  the  chase. 


280  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  If  it  were  not  for  your  wet  feet  I  should  put  you  on  ray 
horse  and  start  towards  home,  hoping- to  meet  some  one  with 
a  cart.  As  it  is,  I  think  you  had  better  try  to  walk  for  :\ 
while." 

"  It  would  be  very  uncomfortable  in  these  wet  things.  No  ; 
I  couldn't." 

"  I  hardly  know  what  we  can  do,  then,  unless  you  will  take 
off  your  stockings  and  those  silly  slippers,  and  wrap  your  feet 
up  in  something  dry.  'Then  I  could  put  you  on  the  horse." 

"But  there's  nothing  to  wrap  them  up  in." 

"  Yes ;  my  coat." 

Garda  laughed.     "  To  think  of  seeing  you  without  one  !" 

But  at  length  this  was  done;  the  pretty  little  feet,  white 
and  cold,  she  dried  with  her  handkerchief,  and  then  wrapped 
up  as  well  as  she  could  in  his  coat,  securing  the  wrapping 
with  the  black  ribbon  which  had  been  her  belt.  Thus  pro 
tected  he  lifted  her,  laughing  at  her  own  helplessness,  on  the 
horse,  where  she  sat  sidewise,  holding  on ;  she  had  fastened 
all  the  roses  which  had  been  in  her  belt  on  her  palmetto  hat, 
so  that  she  looked  like  a  May-queen.  Winthrop  walked  on 
in  advance,  leading  the  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  carrying  her 
slippers  dangling  from  his  arm  by  a  string,  in  the  hope,  he 
said,  of  at  least  beginning  the  drying.  For  some  time  Garda 
amused  herself  making  jests  at  their  plight.  But  after  a 
while  the  uneasy  posture  in  which  she  was  obliged  to  sit  be 
gan  to  tire  her ;  she  begged  him  to  stop  and  let  her  rest. 

"  We  shouldn't  reach  home  then  until  long  after  dark,"  he 
answered.  "As  it  is,  at  this  rate,  it  will  be  very  late  before 
we  can  get  there." 

"Never  mind  that;  of  what  consequence  is  it?  I'm  so 
tired!"  . 

lie  came  back,  and  walking  by  her  side,  guiding  the  horse 
by  the  rein,  he  told  her  to  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
steady  herself  in  that  way ;  this  bettered  matters  a  little,  and 
they  got  over  another  long  slow  mile.  The  sun  had  sunk 
low  in  the  west;  his  horizontal  rays  lit  up  the  barren  with 
a  flood  of  golden  light.  "My  poor  slippers  arc  no  drier," 
said  Garda,  lifting  the  one  that  hung  near  her. 

"  If  we  had  had  time  we  could  have  made  a  fire,  and  dried 
them  with  very  little  trouble." 


EAST  ANGELS.  281 

"  Oh,  let  us  make  a  fire  now  !  I  love  to  make  a  fire  in  the 
woods.  You  could  get  plenty  of  dry  cones  and  twigs  and  it 
wouldn't  take  fifteen  minutes  ;  then,  if  they  were  once  dry,  I 
could  walk,  you  know." 

"  Your  fifteen  minutes  would  be  an  hour  at  least,  and  that 
is  an  hour  of  daylight  very  precious  to  us  just  now.  Besides, 
I  am  afraid  I  doubt  your  walking  powers." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Garda,  with  frankness ;  "  I  hate  to  walk." 

"  Yet  you  can  run,"  he  suggested,  referring  to  her  esca 
pade  on  Patricio  beach. 

Garda  took  up  this  memory,  and  was  merry  over  it  for 
some  time.  Then,  growing  weary  again,  she  told  him  despot 
ically  that  he  must  stop.  "  I  cannot  bear  this  position  and 
jolting  a  moment  longer,  with  my  feet  fettered  in  this  way," 
she  said,  vehemently.  "  You  couldn't  either." 

He  turned ;  though  she  was  smiling,  he  saw  that  she  had 
grown  pale.  "  I  shall  have  to  humor  you.  But  I  give  you 
fifteen  minutes  only."  He  lifted  her  down,  and  mounting'the 
horse,  rode  off  to  a  distance,  first  in  one  direction,  then  in  an 
other,  hoping  to  discover  some  one  whom  he  could  send  in 
to  Gracias  for  a  carriage  or  wagon.  But  the  wide  barren, 
growing  rapidly  dusky,  remained  empty  and  still ;  there  was 
no  moving  thing  in  sight. 

When  he  came  back  he  found  that  Garda  had  put  on  her 
stockings  and  slippers  again,  wet  as  they  were.  She  was  try 
ing  to  walk ;  but  the  soft  sand  of  the  track  clung  to  each 
soaked  shoe  so  that  she  lifted,  as  she  said,  a  mountain  every 
time  she  took  a  step.  In  spite  of  this,  "  I'm  going  on,"  she 
announced. 

"  You  must,  now  that  you  have  put  on  those  wet  things 
again ;  it's  the  only  way  to  keep  from  taking  cold." 

So  they  started,  Garda  leaning  on  his  arm,  while  he  held 
the  bridle  with  his  other  hand.  "I  might  ride,  and  carry 
you  behind  me,"  he  suggested.  "  Like  Lochinvar." 

"Who's  Lochinvar?     See;  there's  somebody  !" 

He  looked  towards  the  point  she  indicated,  and  saw  the 
figure  of  a  man  going  in  another  direction,  and  at  a  good  dis 
tance  from  them.  He  jumped  on  his  horse  again,  and  rode 
across  to  speak  to  him.  The  man  proved  to  be  a  tall  young 
negro  of  eighteen  or  nineteen ;  he  was  ready  to  do  anything 


282  EAST  AXGELS. 

that  Winthrop  should  desire,  but  ho  had  also  the  disappoint 
ing  tidings  to  communicate  that  they  were  even  farther  from 
East  Angels  and  Gracias  than  they  had  supposed ;  they  were 
still  ten  miles  out. 

"  Why,  it's  Bartolo,"  said  Garda,  as  they  came  back  togeth 
er.  She  had  seated  herself,  and  was  looking  at  her  clogged 
feet  gravely. 

"  Yessum,"  said  Bartolo,  removing  his  fragmentary  straw 
hat. 

"  He's  Telano's  cousin,"  pursued  Garda,  inspecting  the 
wrinkled  kid  at  the  heel  of  the  left  slipper.  "  Do  you  know, 
they  are  beginning  to  shrink ;  and  they  hurt  me." 

Winthrop  stood  still,  deliberating.  There  was  no  house 
or  cabin  of  any  kind  within  a  number  of  miles,  Bartolo  said; 
if  he  should  send  the  boy  in  to  Gracias  on  foot  for  a  carriage, 
and  keep  on  advancing  with  Garda  in  the  same  direction  at 
their  present  slow  rate,  they  should  not  probably  reach  East 
Angels  until  midnight;  to  go  in  himself  on  horseback,  and 
leave  Garda  with  only  Bartolo  as  protector — no,  lie  could  not 
do  that.  This  last  would  have  been  the  southern  way,  and 
Garda  herself  suggested  it.  "  Ride  in  to  Gracias  as  fast  as 
you  can,  and  come  back  with  a  carriage,  or  something,  for 
me ;  I  shall  not  be  afraid  if  Bartolo  can  stay." 

Bartolo  showed  his  white  teeth.  "  I  ken  stay,  sho,"  he 
said.  He  was  blacker  and  jollier  than  his  cousin  Telano,  he 
had  not  the  dignified  manners  of  a  Governor  of  Vermont; 
he  was  attired  in  a  light  costume  of  blue  cotton  shirt  and 
butternut  trousers,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  his  feet  bare. 

Winthrop  still  deliberated.  "Perhaps  it  would  be  better," 
he  said  at  last,  "if  Bartolo  should  go  in,  on  my  horse;  I 
could  wait  here  with  you."  And  he  looked  at  Garda  with 
eyes  which  asked  the  question — was  Bartolo  to  be  trusted  so 
far  as  that  ? 

She  understood.  "  Bartolo  will  carry  your  message  as 
well  as  any  one  could,  I  know,"  she  answered. 

Bartolo  gave  his  head  a  lurch  to  one  side  in  acknowledg 
ment  of  her  compliment.  He  slapped  his  leg  resoundingly  ; 
— "  I  tell  ycr!"  he  said.  It  was  his  way  of  affirming  his  ca 
pabilities. 

There  was  really  nothing  else  to  be  done,  unless  Winthrop 


EAST  ANGELS.  283 

should  essay  to  ride,  as  he  had  suggested,  with  Garda  behind 
him ;  and  Garda  had  declined  to  try  this  mode  of  progres 
sion.  Bartolo  offered  the  statement  that  he  could  reach  Gra- 
cias,  and  have  a  carriage  back,  before  dark. 

"  That's  impossible,"  said  Winthrop,  briefly. 

"  'Twon'  be  more'n  de  edge  of  de  ebenin',  den,  marse," 
said  Bartolo,  with  his  affable  optimism. 

"  Be  off,  in  any  case ;  the  sooner  you  are  back,  the  more 
dimes  you  will  have." 

Bartolo  flung  himself  in  a  heap  upon  the  saddle,  disentan 
gling  his  legs  after  the  horse  was  in  motion;  then,  his  bare 
feet  dangling  and  flapping  without  use  of  the  stirrup,  he  gal 
loped  across  the  barren,  not  by  the  road,  but  taking  a  shorter 
cut  he  knew.  Winthrop  stood  watching  him  out  of  sight; 
but  he  could  not  see  far,  as  the  light  was  nearly  gone. 

"  Now  make  a  fire,"  said  Garda. 

"Don't  you  think  you  could  walk  on — if  we  should  go  very 
slowly?  We  might  shorten  the  distance  by  a  mile  or  two." 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  take  a  step.  These  slippers  are 
tightening  every  minute,  in  the  wrong  places ;  they  hurt  me 
even  as  I  sit  still." 

"Try  my  shoes." 

"  I  couldn't  carry  them,  my  feet  would  slip  out  at  the  top." 

This  was  true ;  her  little  feet  looked  uselessly  small,  now 
that  they  were  needed  for  active  service.  "  You  are  very  iu- 
convenient,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"The  next  thing — you  will  be  asking  me  to  go  in  to  Gra- 
cias  barefoot,"  continued  Garda.  "But  I  never  could,  never; 
one  step  on  this  sand  would  make  me  all  creepy." 

"  Well,"  said  Winthrop  at  last,  accepting  his  fate,  "  I  sup 
pose  I  might  as  well  make  a  fire." 

"  It's  what  I  wanted  you  to  do  in  the  first  place,"  answered 
Garda,  serenely. 

He  made  a  fire  that  leaped  high  towards  heaven.  lie 
made  it  systematically,  first  with  twigs  and  pine  cones  which 
he  collected  and  piled  together  with  precision  before  applying 
the  match ;  then  he  added  dry  branches,  which  he  searched 
for  and  hauled  in  with  much  patience  and  energy. 

"  When  I  asked  you  to  make  a  fire,  I  did  not  suppose  you 
would  be  away  all  night,"  remarked  Garda,  as  he  returned 


284  EAST  ANGELS. 

from  one  of  these  expeditions,  dragging  another  great  load 
behind  him. 

"All  night?     Twenty  minutes,  perhaps." 

"  At  least  an  hour." 

He  looked  at  his  watch  by  the  light  of  the  blaze  and  found 
that  she  was  right ;  lie  had  been  at  work  an  hour.  As  he 
had  now  collected  a  great  heap  of  branches  for  further  sup 
ply,  he  stood  still,  watching  his  handiwork ;  Garda  was  sit 
ting,  or  rather  half  reclining,  on  his  coat,  her  back  against  a 
pine,  her  slippers  extended  towards  the  glow. 

"  You  look  sleepy,"  he  said,  smiling  to  see  her  drowsy 
eyes.  "But  I  am  glad  to  add  that  you  also  look  warm." 

"Yes,  I  am  extremely  comfortable.  But,  as  you  say,  I 
am  sleepy  ;  would  you  mind  it  if  I  should  really  fall  asleep?" 

"  The  best  thing  you  could  do." 

She  put  her  head  down  upon  her  arm,  her  eyes  closed ;  it 
was  not  long  before  he  could  perceive  that  sleep  had  come. 
lie  took  off  his  soft  felt  hat,  and,  kneeling  down,  raised  her 
head  gently  and  placed  it  underneath  as  a  pillow.  She  woke 
and  thanked  him ;  but  fell  asleep  again  immediately.  He 
drew  the  little  mantle  she  wore — it  was  hardly  more  than  a 
scarf — more  closely  round  her  shoulders,  added  to  it  the  only 
thing  he  had,  his  silk  handkerchief.  And  then,  coatless  and 
hatless,  he  walked  up  and  down  beside  the  fire  and  her  sleep 
ing  figure,  keeping  watch  and  listening  for  the  distant  sound 
of  wheels.  But  it  was  too  early  to  listen,  he  knew  that. 
Night  had  darkened  fully  down  upon  the  barren,  the  fire,  no 
longer  leaping,  burned  with  a  steady  red  glow ;  a  warm 
breeze  stirred  now  and  then  in  the  pine-tre~es;  but  except 
that  soft  sound  it  was  very  still.  And  the  aromatic  odors 
grew  stronger. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE  next  morning,  about  eight  o'clock,  the  only  covered 
carriage  of  which  Gracias  could  boast  drove  up  to  the  door 
of  East  Angels.  From  it  descended  (it  really  was  a  descent, 
for  the  carriage  had  three  folding  steps)  Evert  Winthrop, 
then  Garda,  then  Mrs.  Carew,  to  meet,  gathered  in  the  lower 


EAST  ANGELS.  283 

hall  near  the  open  door,  Dr.  Kirby  and  his  mother,  the  Rev. 
Middleton  Moore,  Madam  Ruiz,  Madam  Giron,  and,  in  the 
background,  Pablo  and  Raquel.  Margaret  was  not  there, 
nor  Celestine ;  but  Looth's  head  peeped  over  the  old  carved 
railing  at  the  top  of  the  stairway,  and  outside,  gathered  at 
the  corner  of  the  house,  were  Telano,  Aunt  Dinah-Jim,  Maum 
Jube,  and  Cyndy,  furtively  looking  on.  Dr.  Kirby's  face 
was  dark.  Mr.  Moore,  who  always  preferred  that  everything 
should  be  as  usual,  was  doing  his  best  (in  opposition  to  the 
Doctor)  to  keep  it  usual  now ;  of  course  they  had  been  anx 
ious;  but  Garda  was  found,  he  did  not  see  why  they  should 
continue  to  be  distressed.  Little  Mrs.  Kirby,  in  her  neat 
brown  bonnet  with  little  brown  silk  cape,  looked  apprehen 
sive.  Madam  Giron  (with  some  hastily  donned  black  lace 
drapery  over  her  head)  and  Madam  Ruiz  appeared  much 
more  reserved  than  was  usual  with  them. 

The  arriving  Betty  alone  was  radiant;  but  she  shone  for 
all.  She  half  fell  out  of  the  carriage  in  her  haste,  and  al 
most  brought  Evert  Winthrop,  who  was  assisting  her,  to  the 
ground.  Garda,  while  waiting  a  moment  for  these  two  to 
disentangle  themselves,  glanced  at  the  assembled  group  with 
in,  and,  smiling  at  their  marshalled  array,  waved  a  gay  little 
salutation  to  the  Doctor,  who  was  advancing  to  meet  them. 
But  the  Doctor  was  in  no  mood  for  such  light  greetings ; 
in  majestic  silence  he  came  forth,  representing  the  others, 
representing  Gracias-a-Dios,  representing  himself. 

Winthrop  detested  scenes,  he  was  much  annoyed  that 
these  people  had  (as  he  said  to  himself)  thought  it  necessary 
to  make  one.  But  he  saw  that  he  could  not  prevent  it,  they 
had  made  up  their  minds  to  take  it  in  that  way;  if  he  did 
not  speak,  the  Doctor  would,  and  it  was  better  to  speak  first 
and  speak  lightly,  and  by  ignoring  their  solemnity,  break  it 
up,  than  be  put  through  a  catechism  on  his  own  account. 

"Ah,  Doctor,"  he  said,  "good-morning;  we  have  had  an 
accident,  as  you  sec,  and  are  rather  late.  But  it  isn't  of  as 
much  consequence  as  it  might  have  been,  because  Garda  has 
given  me  the  right  to  take  care  of  her ;  she  has  promised  to 
be  my  wife." 

It  was  out— the  great  news !  Betty  Carew  fell  to  kissing 
everybody  in  her  excitement,  and  saying,  tearfully,  "Isn't  it 


286  EAST  ANGELS. 

— isn't  it  beautiful?"  Old  Mrs.  Kirby  walked  back,  ami 
meekly  sat  down  on  the  bottom  stair;  she  was  pleased,  but 
she  was  also  extremely  tired,  in  the  reaction  she  was  becom 
ing  conscious  of  it ;  though  deeply  interested,  her  principal 
hope  now  was  that  somebody  would  think  of  breakfast. 
Madam  Giron  (generously  unmindful  of  her  missing  horse) 
and  Madam  Ruiz  came  forward  together  to  offer  their  con 
gratulations ;  at  heart  they  were  much  astonished,  for  they 
both  thought  Winthrop  far  too  old  for  Garda;  they  tried 
not  to  show  their  surprise,  and  said  some  very  sweet  things. 
But  Mr.  Moore  was  the  most  startled  person  present,  Win- 
throp's  speech  had  seemed  to  him  the  most  unusual  thing  he 
had  ever  heard.  He  walked  up  and  down  several  times,  as 
if  he  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do.  Then  he  tried  to  pre 
sent  a  better  appearance  in  the  presence  of  all  these  friends, 
and  stood  still,  rubbing  his  hands  and  saying  every  now  and 
then,  in  a  conciliating  tone  (apparently  as  much  to  himself 
as  to  any  one  else),  "  Why  yes,  of  course.  Why  yes." 

These  little  flurries  of  words,  movement,  and  embraces  had 
gone  on  simultaneously;  and  Winthrop  had  all  the  time  been 
trying  to  lead  the  way  towards  the  stairs.  Dr.  Kirby  had 
not  spoken  a  syllable,  either  in  answer  to  Winthrop's  first 
speech,  or  Betty's  tearful  "Isn't  it  beautiful  ?"  or  Mr.  Moore's 
"  Why  yes."  But  now  he  found  his  voice,  and  drawing 
Garda — who  had  kept  on  laughing  to  herself  softly — away 
from  the  women  who  were  surrounding  her, "  Come  up-stairs, 
Garda,"  he  said ;  "  this  open  hall  is  no  place  for  a  serious 
conversation." 

It  occurred  to  Winthrop  that  he  might  have  thought  of 
this  before. 

Meanwhile  the  large  heavy  Looth  had  gone  on  a  thunder 
ous  run  through  the  whole  length  of  the  upper  hall,  on  her 
way  to  a  back  staircase,  in  order  to  get  down  first  and  tell 
the  news  to  Telano,  Aunt  Dinah,  and  the  others.  For  Pablo 
and  Raqucl  held  themselves  aloof  from  the  new  servants 
(though  kindly  allowing  them  to  do  the  work  of  the  house 
hold),  and  it  gave  Looth  joy  to  forestall  them.  Pablo  and 
Raquel  were  of  the  old  regime,  they  held  their  heads  high 
because  they  were  not  receiving  wages,  but  "  b'longed  to  de 
place;"  they  had  small  opinion  of  "free  niggahs"  still,  and 


EAST  ANGELS.  287 

were  distinctly  of  the  belief  that  "  man's  payshin"  was  an 
invention  of  the  Yankees,  which  would  soon  come  to  an  end. 
"Den  we'll  see  squirmin' — ki !" 

When  the  friends  were  re-assembled  in  the  drawing-room 
up-stairs}  Dr.  Kirby  said,  with  gravity,  "  Let  some  one  inform 
Mrs.  Harold." 

Winthrop  repressed  a  movement  of  impatience ;  the  little 
Doctor  with  his  magisterial  air,  the  tall,  lank  clergyman  try 
ing  to  conciliate  his  own  surprise,  Mrs.  Carew  with  her  ejac 
ulations  and  handkerchief,  the  two  Spanish  ladies,  who,  as  it 
was  a  sentimental  occasion,  stood  romantically  holding  each 
other's  hands,  even  poor  tired  little  Mrs.  Kirby,  folded  up 
quiet  and  small  as  a  mouse  in  her  chair — they  all  seemed  to 
him  tedious,  unnecessary.  Then  his  glance  reached  Garda, 
who  was  looking  at  him  over  the  low  bulwark  of  the  Doc 
tor's  shoulder.  His  face  softened,  and  he  smiled  back  at  her, 
evidently  they  must  let  these  good  people  have  their  way. 

But  Garda  was  less  patient.  "I  shall  go  myself  to  find 
Margaret,"  she  said;  and  slipped  from  the  room  before  the 
Doctor  could  stop  her. 

"I  don't  think  she  will  come  back  immediately,"  said 
Winthrop,  smiling  a  little  with  recovered  good-humor  at  the 
solemn  face  the  Doctor  turned  towards  him.  "  If  these 
friends  will  kindly  excuse  me,  I  should  like  to  go  to  my 
room  for  a  while,  as  I  have  been  up  all  night;  perhaps  you 
will  come  with  me?"  he  added  to  the  Doctor; — "for  a  mo 
ment  or  two." 

It  was  not  at  all  the  Doctor's  idea,  this  easy  "  moment  or 
two,"  of  the  formal  interview  which  should  take  place  be 
tween  the  suitor  and  the  guardian.  But  neither  had  it  been 
at  all  to  his  taste — Winthrop's  first  remark  that  they  were 
"rather  late."  Rather  late  —  he  should  think  so,  indeed! 
About  fifteen  hours.  However,  his  genuine  fondness  for 
Garda  induced  him  to  waive  ceremony,  and  he  prepared  to 
follow  the  northerner  who,  with  a  courteous  bow  to  the  oth 
ers,  was  turning  to  leave  the  room. 

But  they  would  not  let  him  go  so,  they  must  all  shake 
hands  with  him  again.  Madam  Ruiz  and  Madam  Giron 
turned  their  lovely  eyes  upon  him,  and  said  some  more  en 
chanting  things;  Betty,  taking  his  hand  in  both  of  hers, 


288  EAST  ANGELS. 

gave  him  her  blessing.  Mr.  Moore's  clasp  was  more  limp ; 
he  was  a  very  sincere  man,  and  did  not  know  yet  whether  he 
was  pleased  or  not.  He  did  not  think  Penelope  would  know. 
When  Winthrop  and  Dr.  Kirby  had  left  the  room,  he  took 
leave  of  the  ladies,  mounted  his  pony,  and  started  on  his  re 
turn  to  Gracias;  perhaps,  after  all,  Penelope  would  know. 
Madam  Ruiz  and  Madam  Giron  went  next,  not  aware  that 
the  tidings  they  carried  would  bring  another  access  of  that 
terrific  rage  to  Manuel  when  he  should  hear  it  (in  Key  AVest), 
and  a  heavy  conviction  that  the  world's  last  days  were  cer 
tainly  near  to  poor  stiff  Torres.  Betty  Carew  was  to  remain  ; 
to  her,  when  they  were  alone  together,  Mrs.  Kirby,  waiting 
for  Reginald,  confided  her  need  for  breaking  her  fast. 

"And  Fm  famished  too,"  said  Betty,  wiping  her  eyes  de 
cisively  for  the  last  time,  and  putting  away  her  handkerchief ; 
"  only  one  doesn't  remember  it  now,  of  course,  at  such  a  time 
as  this."  (But  Mrs.  Kirby  thought  she  did  remember.)  "  We 
had  a  little  something  before  we  started,  at  my  house — where 
dear  Evert  in  the  sweetest  way  brought  Garda,  as  soon  as  they 
reached  Gracias ;  but  it  was  only  a  little,  and  I'll  go  directly 
out  now  myself  and  speak  to  Aunt  Dinah,  as  Mrs.  Harold  and 
Garda  are  talking,  I  reckon — yes,  indeed,  they've  got  some 
thing  to  talk  about,  haven't  they?  and  what  a  comfort  this  will 
be  to  Mrs.  Harold,  coming  so  soon  after  her  taking  charge  of 
the  dear,  dear  child,  and  making  her  more  than  ever  one  of 
the  family,  of  course;  and  Katrina  too,  what  a  comfort  it 
will  be  to  her  to  have  her  dear  nephew  so  delightfully  mar 
ried  !  But  there,  I'll  go  out  and  speak  to  Aunt  Dinah  ; 
'twon't  be  long,  Mistress  Kirby  ;  'tvvon't  be  long." 

Mrs.  Kirby  hoped  it  would  not  be ;  she  sat  very  still  in  her 
low  chair,  it  seemed  to  help  her  more  if  she  sat  still.  She 
was  seventy-five  years  old,  and  a  very  delicate  little  woman ; 
her  last  meal  had  been  taken  at  five  o'clock  of  the  afternoon, 
or,  as  she  would  have  said,  of  the  evening,  before.  She  had 
been  up  all  night,  having  started  with  her  son  for  East  An 
gels  soon  after  Telano  had  appeared  at  their  door  late  in  the 
evening,  saying  that  Garda  had  not  come  home,  and  Mrs. 
Harold  wished  to  know  if  she  were  with  them ;  Reginald, 
though  in  his  mental  perceptions  so  keen,  was  very  blind  at 
night  as  regarded  actual  vision ;  in  consequence  they  had 


EAST  ANGELS.  289 

missed  their  way,  and  after  long  meandering  wanderings  over 
the  level  country  in  various  directions  through  the  soft  dark 
ness,  behind  their  old  horse  June  on  a  slow  walk  (her  white 
back  was  the  only  thing  they  could  either  of  them  see),  they 
had  found  themselves  at  dawn  far  away  from  East  Angels, 
so  that  they  had  only  been  able  to  arrive  there  half  an  hour 
before  Garda  herself  appeared.  They  had  found  several  of 
their  friends  already  assembled,  and  had  learned  from  them 
that  word  had  been  sent  down  from  Gracias  that  Garda  had 
reached  Mrs.  Carew's  house  in  safety,  with  Evert  Winthrop ; 
and  that  all  three  would  soon  be  at  East  Angels. 

This  news  had  occasioned  much  relief.  Also  some  con 
jecture.  But  Reginald  Kirby  did  not  conjecture  when  they 
told  him  the  tale,  he  maintained  an  ominous  silence.  Too 
ominous,  Mr.  Moore  thought:  let  ominousness  be  kept  for 
one's  attitude  towards  crime.  The  truth  was  that  Mr.  Moore, 
much  as  he  admired  Dr.  Reginald  (and  he  admired  him  sin 
cerely),  thought  that  he  had  just  one  little  fault:  he  was  dis 
posed  at  times  to  be  somewhat  theatrical.  So  he  spoke  in 
his  most  amiable  way  of  Garda's  adventure  being  "  idyllic," 
and  turning  to  the  Doctor,  added,  pleasantly,  "  Why  so  sat 
urnine?"  And  then  again  (as  it  seemed  to  him  a  good 
phrase),  "  Why  so  saturnine  ?"  And  then  a  third  time,  and 
more  playfully,  as  though  it  were  a  poetical  quotation,  "  Why  ? 
— tell  me  why  ?" — which  was  indeed  imitated  from  one  of 
Penelope's  songs,  "  Where,  tell  me  where," — referring  to  a 
Highland  laddie. 

The  Doctor  glared  at  him.  Then  he  took  him  by  the  but 
ton  and  led  him  apart  from  the  others.  "  Sir,"  he  said,  frown 
ing,  "  you  can  take  what  stand  you  like  in  this  matter,  you 
are  a  clergyman,  and  a  certain  oatmealish  view  of  things  be 
comes  your  cloth ;  but  I,  sir,  am  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
must  act  accordingly !"  And  leaving  the  parson  to  digest 
that,  he  returned  to  his  post  at  the  door. 

When  Betty  came  back  from  her  interview  with  Aunt 
Dinah  she  brought  with  her  a  piece  of  hot  corn-bread  ;  "  I 
thought  you  might  like  a  taste  of  it,"  she  said.  Mrs.  Kirby 
was  very  glad  to  get  it ;  she  sat  breaking  off  small  fragments 
and  eating  them  carefully — Mrs.  Rutherford  would  have  said 
that  she  nibbled.  "  Yes,  the  sweetest  thing  !"  continued  Bet- 

10 


290  EAST   ANGELS. 

ty,  seating  herself  broadly  in  an  arm  -  chair,  and  searching 
again  for  her  handkerchief,  "Let  me  see  —  you  and  the 
Doctor  started  down  here  about  midnight,  didn't  you  ?  Well, 
of  course  we  didn't  feel  like  going  to  bed,  of  course,  not 
knowing  where  our  poor  dear  child  might  be,  and  so  I  went 
over  and  sat  with  Penelope  Moore ;  and  Mr.  Moore  very  often 
went  down  to  the  gate,  and  indeed  a  good  deal  of  the  time 
he  stayed  out  on  the  plaza;  Telano's  coming  up  from  here 
had  let  everybody  know  what  had  happened,  and  many  oth 
ers  sat  up  besides  ourselves,  and  some  of  the  servants  got  to 
gether  with  torches  and  went  out  on  the  barren  to  look,  only 
Mr.  Moore  wouldn't  organize  a  regular  search,  because  he 
supposed  that  was  being  done  here  under  the  Doctor's  di 
rections,  he  never  dreamed  you  hadn't  got  here  at  all !  At 
length,  when  it  was  nearly  three,  Mr.  Moore  came  in  and  said 
that  he  thought  we  had  better  go  to  bed  and  get  what  sleep 
we  could ;  that  we  should  only  be  perfectly  useless  and  ex 
hausted  the  next  day  if  we  sat  up  all  night "  (here  little  Mrs. 
Kirby  heaved  a  noiseless  sigh);  "and  so  I  went  home,  and 
did  go  to  bed,  but  more  to  occupy  the  time  than  anything 
else,  for  of  course  it  was  simply  impossible  to  sleep,  anxious 
as  I  was.  But  I  must  have  dropped  off,  after  all,  I  reckon, 
because  it  was  just  dawn  when  Cynthy  came  up  to  tell  me 
that  Mr.  Moore  was  down-stairs ;  I  rushed  down,  and  he  said 
that  Marcos  Finish,  the  livery-stable  man,  had  been  to  the 
rectory  to  say  that  Bartolo  Johnson  had  corne  to  his  house  a 
short  time  before,  knocked  him  up,  and  told  him  that  the 
northern  gentleman  and  Garda  were  ten  miles  out  on  the  bar 
ren,  and  that  he  had  been  sent  in  to  bring  out  a  carriage  for 
them.  He  confessed — Bartolo — that  he  ought  to  have  been 
there  hours  before,  as  the  gentleman  had  sent  him  in  on  his 
own  horse  not  much  past  eight  in  the  evening.  But,  on  the 
way,  he  had  to  pass  the  cabin  of  one  of  his  friends,  he  said 
— a  nice  friend,  that  wild,  drinking  Joe  Tasteen  ! — and  Joe 
stopped  him,  and  he  intended  to  stay  only  a  moment,  of 
course,  which  soon  became  many  minutes  as  the  foolish  boy 
lay  on  the  floor  in  a  drunken  sleep,  while  two  of  Joe's  hang 
ers-on,  though  not  actually  Joe  himself,  I  believe,  made  off 
with  the  horse.  Of  course  it  was  a  regular  plot,  and  I'm 
afraid  Mr.  Winthrop  will  never  see  that  horse  again  !  When 


EAST  ANGELS.  291 

Bartolo  did  at  last  wake  up,  he  came  in  to  Gracias  as  fast  as 
he  could  scamper,  and  went  straight  to  Marcos's  place  and  told 
all  about  it  —  the  only  redeeming  feature  in  his  part  of  the 
affair — and  Marcos  got  out  his  carriage,  and  sent  one  of  his 
best  men  as  driver,  with  Bartolo  as  guide,  and  then  he  went 
over  to  your  house  to  tell  the  Doctor,  and  not  finding  him, 
came  on  to  the  rectory,  and  Mr.  Moore  told  him  that  he  did 
wrong  not  to  come  to  him  before  sending  the  carriage  (but 
Marcos  said  Bartolo  wouldn't  wait),  because  he  himself  would 
have  gone  out  in  it  after  Garda,  of  course.  This  was  the  first 
we  knew,  in  Gracias,  of  Mr.  Winthrop's  being  with  the  dear 
child,  and  it  did  seem  so  fortunate  that  if  they  were  to  be 
lost  at  all,  they  should  happen  to  be  lost  together.  Mr.  Moore 
thought,  and  so  did  Marcos  Finish,  that  they  would  drive  di 
rectly  here,  without  stopping  in  Gracias,  and  so  he  rode  down 
at  once ;  and  I  was  coming  down  myself,  later,  only  they  did 
that  sweet  thing,  they  stopped  after  all,  and  came  to  me. 
There  they  were  in  the  drawing-room  when  I  hurried  down, 
Garda  laughing,  oh,  so  pretty,  the  dear  !  As  soon  as  I  knew, 
I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  gave  her  a  true  mother's  blessing. 
Oh,  Mistress  Kirby,  how  such  days  as  this  take  us  back  to 
our  own  spring-time,  to  the  first  buddings  and  blossomings 
of  our  own  dear  days  of  love !  I  am  sure — I  am  sure,"  con 
tinued  Betty,  overcome  again,  and  lifting  the  handkerchief, 
"that  we  cannot  but  remember!" 

Mrs.  Kirby  remembered ;  but  not  with  her  lachrymal 
glands;  it  was  not  everybody  who  was  endowed  with  such 
copious  wells  there,  suitable  for  every  occasion,  as  Betty  had 
been  endowed  with.  She  nodded  her  head  slowly,  and  look 
ed  at  the  floor ;  she  had  finished  the  corn-bread,  and  now  sat 
holding  the  remaining  crumbs  carefully  in  the  palm  of  her 
hand,  while,  in  a  secondary  current  of  thought  (the  first  was 
occupied  with  Garda  and  her  story),  she  wished  that  Betty 
had  brought  a  plate.  "  Do  what  I  can,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  some  of  them  will  get  on  the  carpet." 

Garda,  escaping  from  the  Doctor,  had  gone  to  Margaret's 
room  ;  she  had  not  much  hope  of  finding  her ;  her  not  hav 
ing  been  present  to  greet  them  seemed  to  indicate  that  she 
was  with  Mrs.  Rutherford,  and  "  with  Mrs.  Rutherford  "  was 
a  hopeless  bar  for  Garda.  But  Margaret  was  there. 


292  EAST  ANGELS. 

Garcia  ran  up  to  her  and  kissed  her.  "  The  only  thing  I 
cared  about,  Margaret,  was  you — whether  you  were  anxious." 

"How  could  I  help  being  anxious?"  Margaret  answered. 
"It  was  the  greatest  relief  when  we  heard  that  you  had 
reached  Gracias."  She  was  seated,  and  did  not  rise ;  but 
she  took  the  girl's  hand  and  looked  at  her. 

Garda  sat  down  on  a  footstool,  and  rested  her  elbows  on 
Margaret's  knee.  "  You  are  so  pale,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  are  all  rather  pale,  we  haven't  been  to 
bed;  we  were  very  anxious  about  you,  and  then  Aunt  Ka- 
trina  has  had  one  of  her  bad  nights." 

But  Garda  never  had  much  to  say  about  Aunt  Katrina. 
She  looked  at  Margaret  with  an  unusually  serious  expression 
in  her  dark  eyes ;  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Margaret. 
You  know  how  wrong  you  have  thought  me  in  liking  Lucian 
as  I  did  $  what  do  you  say,  then,  to  my  liking  somebody  who 
is  very  different — Mr.  Winthrop  ?  What  do  you  say  to  my 
marrying  him  ?  Not  now ;  when  I  am  two  or  three  years 
older.  He  has  always  been  so  kind  to  me,  and  I  like  people 
who  are  kind.  Of  course  you  are  ever  so  much  surprised ; 
but  perhaps  not  more  so  than  I  am  myself.  I  hope  you 
won't  dislike  it ;  one  of  the  pleasantest  things  about  it  to  me 
is  that  it  will  keep  me  near  you." 

Margaret  did  not  say  whether  she  was  surprised  or  not. 
But  she  took  the  girl  in  her  arms,  and  held  her  close. 

"  How  much  you  care  about  it ! — I  believe  you  care  more 
than  I  do,"  said  Garda,  putting  her  head  down  on  Margaret's 
shoulder  contentedly. 

"No,"  answered  Margaret,  "that  is  impossible,  isn't  it? 
It  is  only  that  those  who  are  older  always  realize  such  things 
more." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  realize  anything  more  just  at  pres 
ent,"  said  Garda.  She  left  her  friend,  and  standing  long 
enough  to  lift  her  rounded  arms  above  her  head  in  a,  lon^ 
stretch,  she  threw  herself  down  on  a  low  couch.  "  Oh,  I'm 
so  sleepy !  And  I'm  hungry  too.  I  wish  you  would  let  me 
have  my  coffee  in  here,  Margaret;  then  I  could  talk  to  you  and 
tell  you  all  about  it.  Don't  you  want  to  hear  all  about  it?" 

Margaret  had  risen  to  ring  for  Telano.  "  Of  course,"  she 
said,  as  she  crossed  the  room, 


EAST  ANGELS.  293 

"  Let  me  see,"  began  Garda,  in  a  reviewing  tone.  "  I  went 
to  sleep.  Then  I  woke  up ;  and  after  a  while  I  got  fright 
ened."  She  put  her  hands  under  her  head  and  closed  her 
eyes.  Presently  she  began  to  laugh.  "  That's  all  there  is  to 
tell ;  yes,  really.  I  got  frightened — the  barren  was  so  dark 
and  so  large  behind  me." 

She  said  no  more.  As  she  had  once  remarked  of  herself, 
she  was  not  a  narrator. 

Margaret  did  not  question  her;  she  was  clearing  one  of 
the  tables  for  the  coffee. 

After  a  while  Garda,  still  with  her  eyes  closed,  spoke  again  : 
"  Margaret." 

"  Weil  r 

"  You  will  have  to  tell  me  all  the  things  I  mustn't  say  and 
do." 

"You  will  know  them  without  my  telling." 

"  Never  in  the  world." 

A  few  minutes  more  of  silence,  and  then  Garda's  voice  a 
second  time:  "Margaret." 

"Well?" 

"  Tell  me  you  are  pleased,  or  I  won't  go  on  with  it." 

"  Oh,  Garda,  that's  not  the  tone—" 

"  Yes,  it  is.  The  very  one !  Don't  be  afraid,  we  like  each 
other.  He  likes  me  in  his  way,  and  that  will  do ;  that  is,  it 
will  do  if  you  will  tell  me  how  to  please  him." 

"  You  must  ask  him  that." 

"  Oh,  he'll  tell ;  his  principal  occupation  for  a  long  time  is 
going  to  be  the  discovery  of  my  faults."  But  as  she  looked 
up  at  Margaret,  re-awakened  and  laughing,  it  did  not  seem 
to  the  latter  woman  that  he  would  be  able  to  find  many. 

In  any  case,  he  had  not  set  about  it  yet.  As  he  went 
through  the  hall  towards  his  room,  accompanied  by  the  Doc 
tor,  ""I  take  it  that  it's  hardly  necessary,  Doctor,"  he  said, 
"  to  formally  ask  your  consent." 

The  Doctor  waited  until  they  had  reached  the  room,  and 
the  door  was  closed  behind  them.  "  I  think  it  is  necessary. 
Mr.  Winthrop,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

"  Very  well,  then.  I  ask  it,"  said  the  younger  man.  And 
his  voice,  as  he  spoke,  had  a  pleasant  sound. 

The  Doctor  had  liked  Evert  Winthrop.     There  were  two 


294  EAST  ANGELS. 

or  three  things  which  he  should  have  preferred  to  see  changed ; 
still,  faults  and  all,  he  had  liked  him.  And  he  liked  his  pres 
ent  demand  (though  by  no  means  the  manner  of  it) ;  the 
Northerner  was  taking  the  proper  course,  he  had  taken  it 
promptly.  Nevertheless  the  idea  was  impossible,  perfectly 
impossible,  that  Garda,  the  child  whom  they  all  loved,  the 
daughter  of  Edgar  Thome  and  all  the  Dueros,  could  be  car 
ried  off  by  this  stranger  without  any  trouble  to  himself,  at 
an  hour's  notice!  And  that  he,  Reginald  Kirby,  should  be 
asked  to  give  his  consent  to  it  in  that  light  way  !  Give  his 
consent  ?  Never ! 

The  Doctor's  feelings  were  conflicting.  And  growing  more 
so.  He  looked  at  Winthrop,  and  thought  of  twenty  things ; 
at  one  instant  he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  knock  him  down ; 
the  next,  he  was  grateful.  He  said  to  himself,  almost  with 
tears,  that  at  least  it  should  not  be  so  easy,  there  should  be 
obstacles,  and  plenty  of  them ;  if  there  was  no  one  else  to 
raise  them,  he,  Reginald  Kirby,  would  raise  them.  He  found 
it  difficult  to  know  what  he  really  did  think  with  any  clearness. 

But  Winthrop  was  waiting,  he  must  say  something.  "  Ed- 
garda  is  very  young,"  he  began,  in  rather  a  choked  voice. 

"  I  know  it.  I  should,  of  course,  wait  until  she  was  older 
— at  least  eighteen." 

"  Two  years,"  said  the  Doctor,  mechanically. 

"  Yes,  two  years." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  ?" 

"  In  the  mean  time  we  should,  I  hope,  go  on  much  as  we 
are  going  now ;  she  is  in  Mrs.  Harold's  charge,  you  know." 

The  southerner  thought  that  this  also  was  spoken  much 
too  lightly.  "  Would  your  intention  be  to — to  educate  her 
farther?"  he  asked,  bringing  out  the  question  with  an  effort. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  never  could  consent  to  that,  to  have 
their  child  carried  off,  while  still  so  young  and  impressible, 
and  subjected  to  the  radical  modern  processes  that  passed  as 
education  for  girls  at  the  high-pressure  North. 

"  No,"  Winthrop  answered,  divining  the  Doctor's  thought, 
and  smiling  over  it,  "  I  have  no  intentions  of  that  kind,  how 
could  I  have  ?  If  Garda  should  choose  to  study  for  a  while, 
that  would  be  her  own  affair,  and  Mrs.  Harold's.  She  will 
be  entirely  free." 


EAST  ANGELS.  295 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  will  exercise  no  authority?" 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Then  you  do  not  consider  it  an  engagement  ?"  said  the 
Doctor,  drawing  himself  up  belligerently. 

"  As  much  of  an  engagement  as  this :  she  has  said  that  she 
would  be  my  wife  at  the  end  of  two  years,  if,  at  the  end  of 
two  years,  she  should  find  herself  in  the  same  mind." 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,  don't  smile,  don't  take  it  in  that  way  ! 
At  what  are  you  laughing  ?  It  cannot  be  at  Garda,  it  must 
be  therefore  at  myself ;  I  am  not  aware  in  what  respect  I  am 
a  subject  for  mirth."  The  Doctor  was  suffocating. 

"  You  don't  do  me  justice,"  said  Winthrop,  this  time  se 
riously  enough.  "  I  ask  you,  and  with  all  formality,  since 
you  prefer  formality,  for  your  permission,  as  guardian,  to 
make  Edgarda  Thorne  my  wife,  if,  at  the  end  of  two  years, 
she  should  still  be  willing." 

"  And  if  she  shouldn't  be  ?     She  is  a  child,  sir — a  child." 

"  That  is  what  I  am  providing  for ;  if  she  shouldn't  be,  I 
should  not  hold  her  for  one  moment." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  do  you  hold  yourself  ?"  The  Doc 
tor  was  still  fiery. 

"  I  hold  myself  completely." 

"Do  I  understand,  then,  that  you  consider  yourself  en 
gaged  to  her,  but  that  she  is  not  to  be  engaged  to  you  ?" 

"  That  is  what  it  will  amount  to.  And  it  should  be  so,  on 
account  of  the  difference  in  our  ages." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then,  "  It  is  an  honorable  position 
for  you  to  take,"  said  Kirby. 

He  had  forced  himself  to  say  it.  For,  now  that  he  was 
sure  of  this  man  (he  had  really  in  his  heart  been  sure  of  him 
all  along,  but  now  that  he  had  it  in  so  many  words),  and  his 
anxieties  of  one  sort  were  set  at  rest,  he  could  allow  himself 
the  pleasure  of  freely  hating  him,  at  least  for  a  few  moments. 
It  was  not  a  violent  hate,  but  it  was  deep — the  jealous  dis 
like,  the  surprised  pain,  which  a  father  who  loves  his  young 
daughter  has  to  surmount  before  he  can  realize  that  she  is 
willing  to  trust  herself  to  another  man,  even  the  man  she 
loves ;  what  does  she  know  of  love  ?  is  his  thought — his  fair 
little  child. 

Winthrop  did  not  appear  to  be  especially  impressed  by  the 


296  EAST  ANGELS. 

Doctor's  favorable  opinion  of  him — of  him  and  his  position. 
He  went  on  to  define  the  latter  further.  "  I  think  it  would 
be  more  agreeable  for  us  all  now,  Garda  herself  included,  if 
she  could  be  made  independent,  even  if  only  in  a  small  way, 
as  regards  money.  I  had  not  intended,  as  you  know,  to  buy 
all  the  outlying  land  of  East  Angels ;  but  now  I  will  do  so ; 
it  is  just  as  well  to  have  it  all.  The  money  will  be  in  your 
charge,  of  course;  but  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  see  to 
the  investment  of  it,  as  I  have  good  opportunities  for  that 
sort  of  thing?  I  think  it  is  probable  that  we  can  secure  for 
her,  between  us,  a  tolerable  little  income." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  the  Doctor.  Then  he  tried  to  be 
more  just.  "  Very  proper,"  he  said. 

This  was  the  only  allusion  between  them  to  the  fact  that 
the  suitor  was  a  rich  man.  And  Winthrop,  often  as  Kirby's 
unnecessary  (as  he  thought)  ceremonies  had  wearied  him, 
forgave  it  all  now  in  the  satisfaction  it  was  to  him  to  be 
considered  purely  for  himself — himself  alone  without  his 
wealth ;  yes,  even  by  an  unknown  little  doctor  down  in  Gra- 
cias-a-Dios.  He  felt  quite  a  flush  of  pleasure  over  this  as  he 
realized  that  the  interview  was  coming  to  an  end  without 
one  word  more  on  this  subject,  apparently  not  one  thought. 
He  shook  hands  with  the  Doctor  warmly  ;  and  he  felt  that 
all  these  people  would  talk  and  care  far  more  about  what  ho 
was  personally  than  about  what  he  possessed.  It  was  very 
refreshing. 

The  Doctor  allowed  his  hand  to  be  shaken ;  but  his  feel 
ing  of  dislike  was  still  enjoying  its  season  of  free  play.  He 
looked  at  the  younger  man  and  felt  that  he  detested  him, 
he  had  a  separate  (though  momentary)  detestation  for  his 
gray  eyes,  for  his  white  teeth,  his  thick  hair,  his  erect  bear 
ing,  he  wanted  to  strike  down  his  well-shaped  hands.  This 
stranger  (stranger,  indeed ;  a  few  months  ago  they  had  never 
heard  of  him)  was  to  have  Garda,  carry  her  off,  and  make 
what  he  chose  of  her;  for  that  was  what  it  would  come 
to.  He,  as  guardian,  might  raise  as  many  obstacles  as  he 
pleased ;  but  if  the  child  herself  consented,  what  would  they 
amount  to?  And  the  child  had  consented — this  stranger! 
A  mist  rose  in  his  eyes.  He  turned  quickly  towards  the 
door. 


EAST   ANGELS.  297 

"  I  am  airaid  you  have  had  no  breakfast,"  said  Winthrop, 
courteously,  as  he  followed  him. 

The  Doctor  had  not  thought  of  this,  he  seized  it  as  an  ex 
cuse.  "  I  will  go  and  ask  for  something  now,"  he  said,  and, 
with  a  brief  bow,  he  left  the  room.  In  the  hall  outside,  in  a 
dark  corner,  he  was  obliged  to  stop  and  wipe  his  eyes.  Poor 
Doctor !  Poor  fathers  all  the  world  over !  They  have  to, 
as  the  phrase  is,  get  over  it. 

Before  Gracias  had  been  formally  apprised  of  Garda' s  en 
gagement,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moore  came  down  to  East  Angels  to 
see  Margaret ;  they  came,  indeed,  the  morning  after  Win- 
throp's  interview  with  Dr.  Kirby,  and  explained  that  they 
should  have  come  on  the  previous  afternoon  if  they  had 
been  able  to  secure  old  Cato  and  his  boat.  It  was  no  small 
thing  for  Mrs.  Moore  to  make  such  a  journey  ;  and  Margaret 
expressed  her  acknowledgments. 

"  It  is,  in  fact,  an  especial  matter  that  has  brought  me 
down  to-day,"  answered  Penelope.  "  Would  you  allow  Mid- 
dleton  to  go  out  and  look  at  the  roses?  It  is  a  long  time 
since  he  has  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  them."  When 
Middleton  had  departed,  his  wife,  who  was  established  in  an 
easy-chair  with  her  own  rubber  cushion,  disguised  in  worsted- 
work,  behind  her,  went  on  as  follows :  "  I  have  come,  Mrs. 
Harold,  about  this  reported  engagement  between  our  little 
Garda  and  your  cousin  Mr.  Winthrop"  (Winthrop  and  Mar 
garet  had  ceased  to  disclaim  this  relationship  which  Gracias 
had  made  up  its  mind  to  establish  between  them).  "When 
Middleton  returned  from  here  yesterday,  he  told  me  what 
Mr.  Winthrop  had  said — when  they  first  reached  here,  you 
know — and  we  talked  it  over.  Middleton  was  pleased,  of 
course"  (Penelope  had  known,  then) — "I  mean  with  the 
general  idea ;  as  he  has  the  highest  esteem  for  your  cousin. 
But  while  we  were  still  talking  about  it — for  anything  that 
so  nearly  touches  Garda  touches  us  too  —  we  thought  of 
something,  which,  I  confess,  troubled  us.  Edgarda  is  lovely, 
but  Edgarda  is  a  child,  or  nearly  so ;  what  is  more,  we  re 
member  that  your  cousin  has  always  treated  her  as  one. 
Now  a  man  doesn't  care  for  a  child,  Mrs.  Harold,  in  the  way 
he  cares  for  a  wife,  and  Middleton  and  I  are  both  firmly  of 
the  opinion  that  only  a  love  that  is  inevitable,  overwhelm- 


298  EAST  ANGELS. 

ing  "  (Penelope  emphasized  these  adjectives  with  her  black- 
gloved  forefinger),  "should  be  the  foundation  of  a  marriage. 
Look  at  us ;  we  are  examples  of  this.  I  couldn't  have  lived 
without  Middleton ;  Middleton  couldn't  have  lived  without 
me — I  mean  after  we  had  become  aware  of  the  state  of  our 
feelings  towards  each  other.  And  we  both  think  this  should 
be  the  test :  can  he  live  without  her  ? — can  she  live  without 
him  ?  If  they  can,  either  of  them,  they  had  better  not  mar 
ry.  Of  course,  as  to  what  may  happen  afterwards  "  (Penel 
ope  had  suddenly  remembered  to  whom  she  was  talking), 
"  that  is  another  matter ;  things  may  occur ;  we  may  not  be 
responsible  for  differences.  But,  as  a  beginning,  this  over 
mastering  love  is,  we  are  convinced,  the  only  real  founda 
tion.  Now,  does  your  cousin  care  for  Garda  in  this  way? 
that  is  what  we  ask.  And  if  he  does  not,  is  there  any  rea 
son  that  could  have  influenced  him  in  making  such  an  en 
gagement?  At  this  point  of  our  conversation,  Middleton 
repeated  to  me  a  remark  of  Dr.  Kirby's — which  I  will  not 
particularize  further  than  to  say  that  it  contained  the  Kir- 
byly  coined  word — oatmealish.  But  it  was  that  very  epi 
thet  that  made  us  think  that  he  had  the — the  worldly  idea 
that  what  had  happened  would  cause  remark  in  Gracias,  un 
less  it  could  be  said,  by  authority,  that  the  two  persons  con 
cerned  were  formally  engaged  to  each  other.  Now,  Mrs. 
Harold,  that  is  a  complete  mistake.  You  and  your  cousin, 
all  of  you,  in  fact,  are  strangers,  you  do  not  know  either 
Gracias-a-Dios,  or  Reginald  Kirby,  as  we  do.  Gracias  will 
not  remark ;  Gracias  has  no  such  habits ;  and  Reginald  Kir 
by's  views  must  not  be  taken  in  such  a  serious  matter  as 
this.  Much  as  we  like  Reginald  Kirby,  indisputable  as  is  his 
talent — and  we  consider  him,  all  Gracias  considers  him,  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  men  of  the  time — he  is  in  some  of  his 
judgments — I  regret  to  say  it — but  he  is  light !  When  he 
speaks  on  certain  subjects,  one  might  almost  think  that  he 
was"  (here  Penelope  lowered  her  voice)  "French!  And  so 
Middleton  and  I  have  come  down  to-day  to  say  that  your 
cousin  must  not  be  in  the  least  influenced  by  anything  he 
may  have  suggested.  Gracias  will  not  comment ;  Middleton, 
speaking  (through  me)  as  rector  of  the  parish,  assures  you 
of  this;  and  he  knows  our  people.  I  hope  you  will  not 


EAST  ANGELS.  299 

think  us  forward;  but  we  could  not  possibly  stand  by  and 
see  Garda  so  terribly  sacrificed — married  to  a  man  who  does 
not  love  her  in  the  only  true  way.  And  all  on  account  of  a 
misconception  !" 

"  I  don't  think  Evert  was  influenced  by  anything  Dr.  Kir- 
by  said,"  Margaret  answered. 

"Or  would' say?" 

"  Or  would  say." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  the  idea  of  possible  comment  in 
Gracias  had  nothing  to  do  with  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  Mrs.  Moore.  But  I 
do  think  that  Evert  has  long  been  interested  in  Garda." 

"  Oh,  interested.     We  are  all  interested." 

"  I  mean  he  has  cared  for  her." 

Mrs.  Moore  shook  her  head,  and  folded  her  hands  decisive 
ly.  "  That  is  not  enough,"  she  answered.  "  The  question 
is — (Joes  ne  iove  her?"  And  she  drew  in  her  small  lips  so 
tightly  that  there  was  scarcely  any  mouth  visible ;  only  a 
puckered  line. 

"  You'll  have  to  ask  him  that,"  said  Margaret,  rising.  "  I 
am  going  to  get  you  a  glass  of  wine." 

"'Now  that  is  the  only  unkind  thing  I  have  ever  heard 
you  say,  Mrs.  Harold.  Of  course  we  cannot  ask  him  ;  his 
position  forces  him  to  say  yes,  and  we  should  know  no  more 
than  we  did  before.  But  could  you  sit  by — I  ask  you  as  a 
woman — and  see  Garda  sacrificed  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  such  a  sacrifice — marrying  Evert  Win- 
throp,"  said  Mrs.  Harold,  in  a  tone  which  was  almost  sharp. 

"  It  makes  no  difference  who  it  is,  if  he  doesn't  love  her," 
responded  Penelope,  solemnly  ;  and  she  believed  with  all  her 
heart  in  what  she  said.  She  looked  at  Margaret ;  but  Mar 
garet's  back  was  towards  her.  She  rose,  and  with  her  weak 
step  crossed  the  room  to  where  Margaret  was  standing,  tak 
ing  some  cake  from  Mrs.  Thome's  shining  old  mahogany 
sideboard. 

This  champion  of  love,  as  she  made  her  little  transit,  was 
seen  to  be  attired  in  a  gown  of  figured  green  delaine,  the 
plain  untrimmed  skirt,  which  was  gathered  at  the  waist, 
touching  the  floor.  The  upper  part  of  this  garment  had  the 
appearance  of  being  worn  over  a  night-dress.  But  this  was 


300  EAST   ANGELS. 

because  Penelope  believed  in  all  persons  presenting  them 
selves  "  exactly  as  Nature  made  them."  She  therefore  pre 
sented  herself  in  that  way ;  and  it  was  seen  that  Nature  had 
made  her  with  much  shoulder-blade  and  elbow,  a  perfectly 
flat  chest,  over  which  the  green  gown  was  tightly  drawn,  to 
expand  below,  however  (with  plenty  of  room  to  show  the 
pattern),  over  one  of  those  large,  loose,  flat  waists  concerning 
which  the  possessors,  for  unexplained  reasons,  always  cherish 
evident  pride.  In  the  way  of  collar,  Penelope  had  a  broad 
white  ruffle,  which,  however,  in  spite  of  broadness,  was  loose 
enough  in  front  (though  fastened  with  a  large  shell-cameo 
breastpin)  to  betray,  when  she  turned,  two  collar-bones  and 
an  inch  of  neck  below.  An  edge  of  black  lace,  upon  which 
bugles  had  been  sewed,  adorned  her  sleeves;  she  wore  a 
black  silk  bonnet  with  a  purple  flower,  and  black  kid  gloves 
with  one  button.  Her  black  shawl,  with  a  stella  border,  lay 
on  a  chair. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Harold,"  she  said,  when  she  reached  the  side 
board,  "  we  are  thinking  only  of  Garda.  Do  content  us  if 
you  can, — relieve  our  anxiety ;  we  have  the  most  complete 
confidence  in  you." 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  should  have  it." 

But  the  southern  woman  took  her  hands.  "  Something- 
has  vexed  you,  of  course  I  don't  know  what;  we  should  be 
very  fond  of  you,  Margaret,  if  you  would  let  us ;  perhaps 
some  day  you  will  let  us.  But  this,  meanwhile,  is  another 
matter,  this  is  about  Garda." 

"  Yes,  it's  another  matter,"  answered  Margaret.  She  drew 
her  hands  away,  but  her  voice  took  on  its  old  sweetness 
again.  "  Don't  feel  in  the  least  troubled,  Mrs.  Moore;  there's 
no  cause  for  it.  If  you  want  my  opinion,  here  it  is :  I  think 
he  loves  her;  I  think  he  has  loved  her,  though  possibly  with 
out  knowing  it,  for  some  time." 

And,  ringing  for  Telano,  she  gave  her  orders  about  the 
wine,  and  sent  for  Mr.  Moore — in  case  he  had  completed  his 
inspection  of  the  roses. 


EAST  ANGELS.  301 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ONE  beautiful  morning  towards  the  last  of  November 
three  skiffs  were  making  their  way  up  a  tide-water  creek 
which  led  into  Patricio  towards  its  southern  end.  The  little 
boats  were  each  propelled  by  one  person,  who  stood  erect 
facing  the  prow,  and  using,  now  on  one  side,  now  on  the 
other,  a  si-ngle  light  paddle;  the  stream,  though  deep,  was 
not  wide  enough  to  allow  the  use  of  two  oars,  and  it  wound 
and  doubled  so  tortuously  upon  itself  that  the  easiest  way  to 
guide  it  was  to  stand  up  and  paddle  in  the  Indian  fashion. 
At  the  stern  of  each  boat,  seated  on  the  bottom  on  cushions, 
leaning  back  in  the  shade  of  a  white  parasol,  was  a  lady ; 
Margaret  Harold,  Garda  Thome,  Mrs.  Lucian  Spenser. 

Mr.  Moore  was  propelling  the  boat  in  which  Mrs.  Spenser 
was  reclining;  Lucian's  skiff  held  Garda;  Torres  had  the 
honor  of  piloting  Mrs.  Harold.  The  skiffs  were  advancing 
together,  though  in  single  file,  and  the  voyagers  talked. 

"  How  delightful  it  is  that  one  never  has  to  speak  loud 
here !"  said  Margaret ;  "  the  air  is  so  still  that  the  voice  car 
ries — all  out-doors  is  like  a  room.  I  believe  it's  our  high 
skies  at  the  North,  as  much  as  the  clatter  of  our  towns,  that 
make  us  all  public  speakers  from  our  cradles." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you ;  that  is,  I  don't  if  you  mean  that 
you  prefer  the  southern  articulation,"  said  Mrs.  Spenser. 

"  Yet  I'm  sure  you  prefer  mine,  Rosalie,"  said  her  husband, 
laughing. 

"  You're  not  a  real  southerner,  Lucian." 

"Oh  yes,  I  am.  But  even  if  I'm  not,  here's  Miss  Thorne; 
she  certainly  is." 

"  Miss  Thorne  is  Spanish,"  answered  Mrs.  Spenser,  briefly ; 
"  she  doesn't  come  under  the  term  southerner,  as  I  use  it,  at 
all ;  she  is  Spanish — and  she  speaks,  too,  like  a  New-Eng- 
lander."  Then  feeling,  perhaps,  that  this  statement  had  been 
rather  dry,  she  turned  her  head  and  gave  Garda  a  little  bow 
and  smile. 


302  EAST  ANGELS. 

"You  have  described  "it  exactly,"  said  Garda,  who  was  let 
ting  the  tips  of  her  fingers  trail  in  the  water  over  the  skiff's 
low  side.  "Try  this,  Margaret;  it  makes  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  swimming.'* 

"  The  southern  pronunciation,"  went  on  Mrs.  Spenser,  in 
a  general  way,  "/  do  not  admire."  (She  spoke  as  though 
combating  somebody.)  "  And  they  hav<?,  too,  such  a  curious 
habit,  especially  the  women,  of  talking  about  their  State. 
'  We  Carolinians,'  '  We  Virginians,'  thqy  keep  saying ;  and 
when  they  are  excited,  they  will  call  themselves  all  sorts  of 
names — *  daughters  of  Georgia,'  for  instance.  Imagine  north 
ern  women  speaking  of  themselves  seriously  (and  the  south 
ern  women  are  as  serious  as  possible  about  it)  as  *  We 
daughters  of  Connecticut,'  '  We  daughters  of  Nebraska.' 
We  care  about  as  much,  and  think  about  as  much  of  the  es 
pecial  State  we  happen  to  live  in,  as  the  county." 

"  The  more's  the  pity,  then,"  said  Lucian.  "  That  State- 
feeling  you  criticise,  Rosalie,  is  patriotism." 

"The  northern  women  are  quite  as  patriotic,  I  think," 
said  Margaret.  "  But  it's  for  their  country  as  a  whole,  not 
for  the  State.  And  for  their  country  as  a  whole,  Mrs.  Spenser, 
haven't  you  heard  them  use  fine  language,  occasionally  ?  I 
have ;  '  Columbia,'  and  the  *  Starry  Mother,'  the  '  Home  of 
the  Free,'  and  so  forth." 

Margaret  had  made  remarks  of  this  sort  a  good  many  times 
since  the  arrival  of  Lucian  and  his  wife,  three  weeks  before ; 
she  compared  them  in  her  own  mind  to  the  cushions  in  bags 
of  netting  which  sailors  are  accustomed  to  let  down  by  ropes 
over  a  ship's  side  as  she  enters  port,  to  prevent  too  close  a 
grazing  against  other  ships.  Not  that  Lucian  and  his  wife 
quarrelled,  a  quarrel  requires  two  persons,  and  Lucian  quar 
relled  with  no  one;  he  had  possessed  a  charming  disposition 
when  he  first  visited  Gracias,  he  possessed  a  charming  dis 
position  still.  Nor  did  it  appear  that  his  wife  thought  oth 
erwise,  or  that  she  wished  to  quarrel  with  him ;  on  the  con 
trary,  any  woman  could  have  detected  immediately  that  she 
adored  him,  that  she  had  but  the  one  desire,  namely,  to  please 
him  ;  her  very  irritations — and  they  were  many — came  from 
the  depth  of  this  desire. 

She  was  a  tall  woman,  rather  heavy  in  figure,  though  not 


EAST  ANGELS.  303 

ill  made ;  she  had  a  dark  complexion,  a  good  deal  of  color, 
thick  low-growing  dark  hair,  heavy  eyebrows  that  almost 
met,  very  white  teeth,  and  fairly  good,  though  rather  thick, 
features.  With  more  animation  and  a  happier  expression— 
an  occasional  smile,  for  instance,  which  would  have  revealed 
the  white  teeth — she  might  have  passed  as  handsome  in  a 
certain  way.  As  it  was,  she  was  a  woman  who  walked  with 
an  inelastic  tread,  her  eyes  had  a  watchful  expression,  her 
brow  was  often  lowering;  her  rather  long  upper  lip  came 
down  moodily,  projecting  slightly  over  the  under  one,  which 
was  not  quite  so  full.  She  had  stout  white  hand,  with  square 
fingers.  Her  large  shoulders  stooped  forward  a  little.  She 
was  always  too  richly  dressed. 

When  Rosalie  Bogardus  had  insisted  upon  marrying  Lucian 
Spenser  the  winter  before,  all  her  relatives  had  shaken  their 
heads ;  they  were  shaking  them  still.  The  sign  of  negation 
had  signified  that,  to  their  minds,  Lucian  was  a  fortune-hunt 
er.  Not  that  they  had  meant  to  insinuate  that  Miss  Bogar 
dus  had  not  sufficient  personal  charm  to  attract  for  herself ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  all  thought  Rosalie  a  "  handsome 
woman ;"  but  the  fact  still  remained  that  she  had  a  good 
deal  of  money,  while  the  young  engineer  had  not  one  cent 
—a  condition  of  things  which  they  could  have  pardoned, 
perhaps,  if  he  had  shown  any  activity  of  mind  in  relation  to 
obtaining  the  lacking  coin.  But  here  was  where  Lucian,  so 
active  (unnecessarily)  in  many  other  matters,  seemed  to  them 
singularly  inert.  The  truth  of  the  case  was  not  what  the 
relatives  supposed ;  money  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  this 
marriage,  and  love  had  had  everything. 

Rosalie  had  been  a  silent,  rather  dull-looking  girl,  with  a 
brooding  dark  eye  which  had  a  spark  slumbering  at  the  back 
of  it ;  she  had  a  deep-seated  pride  which  never  found  its  out 
let  in  speech,  and  she  had  led  always  a  completely  repressed 
life  among  her  relative^,  who  were  kind  enough  in  their  way, 
but  who  did  not  in  the  least  understand  her.  The  girl  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  an 'orphan.  Her  disposition  was  re 
served,  jealous  in  the  extreme ;  but,  as  is  often  the  case  with 
reserved  women,  there  was  an  ocean  of  pent-up  tenderness 
surging  below,  which  made  her  sombre  and  unhappy  ;  for 
indiscriminate  friendship  she  had  no  taste,  while  as  to  the 


304  EAST  ANGELS. 

more  intimate  ones,  she  had  always  found  herself  forced, 
sooner  or  later,  to  share  them  with  some  one  else,  and  the 
pain  her  jealousies  had  given  her  upon  these  occasions  had 
been  so  keen  that  she  had  learned  to  abstain  from  them  en 
tirely  ;  it  was  easier  to  live  quite  alone.  When,  therefore, 
at  last  she  believed  that  she  was  loved,  loved  for  herself, 
these  long-repressed  feelings  burst  forth ;  like  the  released 
spirit  of  the  magician's  vial,  they  expanded  and  filled  her 
whole  life,  they  could  never  be  put  back  in  their  prison 
again. 

Five  years  before,  Miss  Bogardus  had  met  Lucian  Spenser 
at  the  White  Mountains.  For  a  number  of  weeks  they  had 
been  thrown  together  almost  daily  in  excursions  and  mount 
ain  walks,  and  the  young  engineer,  with  his  easy,  happy 
temper,  his  wit  and  his  kindness,  had  seemed  to  her  the  most 
agreeable  person  she  had  ever  met.  There  happened  to  be 
no  one  else  there  at  the  moment  whom  Lucian  cared  to  talk 
to ;  still,  it  was  really  his  good  qualities  rather  than  this 
mere  accident  of  there  being  no  one  else  that  led  him  on. 
For  he  had  divined  the  unhappiness  under  the  pride,  he 
could  not  resist  the  charity  (as  well  as  the  small  entertain 
ment  to  himself,  perhaps,  in  the  absence  of  other  diversions) 
of  drawing  a  smile  from  that  dark  reserved  face,  a  look  of 
interest  from  those  moody  eyes;  yes,  it  even  gave  him  pleas 
ure  to  put  some  animation  into  that  inert  figure,  so  that  the 
step  grew  almost  light  beside  his.  For  Lucian  had  endless 
theories  about  the  possible  good  points  of  the  people  he 
met ;  he  was  constantly  saying  of  plain  women  that  if  they 
would  only  be  a  little  more  this  or  a  little  less  that,  they 
would  be  positively  handsome.  And  he  fully  believed  in 
these  possibilities ;  perhaps  that  was  one  of  the  reasons  why 
he  was  so  agreeable  ;  it  is  such  a  charming  talent — the  divin 
ing  the  best  there  is  in  everybody.  At  any  rate,  he  was  so 
genuinely  kind-hearted,  so  proselytingly  so,  if  the  phrase 
may  be  used,  that  it  gave  him  real  pleasure  to  make  people 
happy,  even  if  it  were  only  for  the  moment.  Of  possible 
reactions  he  never  thought,  because  he  never  had  reactions 
himself ;  if  one  thing  had  come  to  an  end,  was  it  not  always 
easy  to  find  another  ?  Easy  for  him. 

He  cared  nothing  about  Miss  Bogardus's  money,  as  in 


EAST  ANGELS.  305 

reality  he  cared  nothing  for  Miss  Bogardus  herself.  But 
when  the  weeks  of  their  mountain  life  were  over,  Miss  Bogar- 
dus  found  that  she  was  earing  for  him,  though  (as  he  would 
have  honestly  and  earnestly  maintained  if  he  had  known  it) 
he  had  never  in  the  least  tried  to  make  her.  He  had  only 
tried  to  make  her  happier;  but  with  Rosalie  Bogardus  that 
was  the  same  thing,  she  had  passed,  owing  to  him,  the  one 
interesting  summer  of  her  dull  rich  life.  She  did  not  know 
that  she  could  be  so  light-hearted,  she  did  not  know  that 
any  one  could  be ;  she  had  had  the  vague  idea  that  all  per 
sons  must  go  more  or  less  unsatisfied,  and  that  this  was  the 
reason  why  so  many  women  (if  they  had  not  children  to 
bring  up)  took  to  good  works  and  charitable  societies,  and 
so  many  men  to  horses  and  wine.  Her  life  had  been  ex 
tremely  dull  because  the  people  she  lived  with  and  those  she 
saw  frequently  (as  has  been  said,  she  had  never  been  a  wom 
an  who  made  many  acquaintances)  were  all  dull ;  and  she 
had  not  had  among  them  even  the  secondary  importance 
which  money  often  bestows,  because  they  were  all  rich  them 
selves.  In  addition,  there  were  in  the  same  circle  younger 
cousins  much  handsomer  than  she  had  ever  been.  The  sum 
mer  she  had  first  met  Lucian  she  was  twenty-seven  years 
old ;  her  relatives  had  become  accustomed  to  the  unexciting 
round  of  her  life — at  home  in  the  winter,  at  the  mountains 
in  the  summer;  a  few  concerts,  some  good  works;  they 
looked  for  nothing  new  from  her ;  she  was  "  only  Rosalie  " 
to  them.  She  had  every  comfort,  of  course,  every  luxury ; 
it  never  occurred  to  their  minds  that  she  might  like  also  a 
taste  of  the  leading  role  for  a  time,  a  taste  of  life  at  first 
hand ;  families  are  very  apt  to  make  this  mistake  regarding 
the  left-over  sisters  and  daughters  whom  they  shelter  so  care 
fully,  perhaps,  but  also  so  monotonously,  under  their  protect 
ing  wing. 

That  summer  Lucian  was  twenty  -  three ;  but,  tall,  hand 
some,  and  in  one  way  very  mature,  he  had  looked  quite  as 
old  as  he  did  now,  five  years  later.  He  was  always  sunny, 
always  amusing;  he  had  not  been  in  the  least  afraid  of  her, 
of  her  age,  her  moodiness,  or  her  money,  but  had  joked  with 
her  and  complimented  her  with  an  ease  which  had  at  first 
disconcerted  her  almost  painfully.  He  had  noticed  and 

20 


306  EAST  ANGELS. 

criticised  her  reserve ;  he  had  discovered  and  praised  her  one 
little  talent,  a  contralto  voice  of  smallest  possible  compass, 
but  some  sweetness  in  a  limited  range  of  old  English  songs ; 
he  had  teased  her  to  make  him  a  pocket  pin -cushion,  and 
then  when  her  unaccustomed  hands  had  painfully  fashioned 
one  (on  her  own  behalf  she  never  touched  a  needle),  he  had 
made  all  manner  of  sport  of  it  and  of  her.  He  had  helped 
her  dry-shod  over  brooks  (unexpectedly  she  had  a  pretty 
foot),  standing  ankle-deep  in  water  himself;  he  had  gone 
miles  for  some  dark  red  roses,  because  one  of  them  would 
"  look  so  well "  (as  it  did)  in  her  hair ;  he  had  laughed  at 
her  books,  and  made  her  feel,  though  without  the  least  ap 
proach  to  saying  so,  that  she  was  ignorant ;  made  her  realize, 
simply  through  her  own  quickened  sense  of  comparison,  that 
she,  Rosalie  Bogardus,  who  belonged  among  the  "  best  peo 
ple,"  and  who  had  enjoyed  what  is  vaguely  but  opulently 
summed  up  as  "  every  advantage,"  was  yet  an  uncultivated 
and  even  a  stupid  sort  of  person,  by  the  side  of  a  certain 
young  idler,  one  who  had  no  background  whatever  (so  her 
relatives  would  have  said),  no  connections,  no  ambitions  or 
industry  of  the  tangible  sort,  and  no  money ;  no  apprecia 
ble  baggage,  in  short,  with  which  to  go  through  life,  save 
a  graceful  little  talent  for  painting  in  water-colors,  and  the 
most  delightful  disposition  in  the  world.  Her  relatives 
would  have  added — an  immense  assurance.  But  Rosalie  did 
not  call  it  that ;  to  her  it  seemed  courage — courage  indomita 
ble,  was  the  term  in  her  mind. 

She  over-estimated  this  trait  in  Lucian,  as  she  did  one  or 
two  other  traits ;  he  himself  would  never  have  dreamed  of 
being  so  brave  as  she  supposed  him  to  be.  He  was  brave 
enough,  physically  he  had  never  known  a  fear;  but  that  it 
was  indomitable  courage  which  made  him  smile  so  light- 
heartedly  in  the  face  of  fortunes  so  modest — that  it  was  a 
splendid  defiance — this  was  where  the  slow,  silent,  passion 
ate-hearted  Rosalie  was  entirely  mistaken.  It  was  tempera 
ment  more  than  anything  else.  But  it  was  natural  that  she 
should  fall  into  this  error,  brought  up  as  she  had  been  among 
people  who  were  immovably  set  in  all  their  ideas,  proud  of 
their  mediocrity  (they  called  it  conservatism),  who  had  in 
herited  their  wealth  through  several  generations,  and  who, 


EAST  ANGELS.  307 

while  close  and  careful  in  all  their  ways,  enemies  to  every 
thing  in  the  least  like  extravagance,  were  yet  fully  of  the 
opinion  that  respectability  as  well  as  happiness  depended 
upon  an  unassailable  foundation  of  fixed  income ;  having  al 
ways  lived  in  this  atmosphere,  and  possessing  small  talent 
for*  remarking  anything  outside  of  her  own  narrow  little 
world,  it  was  impossible  for  Rosalie  Bogardus  to  grasp  at 
once  a  plan  of  life  which  differed  so  widely  from  the  only 
one  she  knew.  She  could  not  conceive  the  idea  at  first  of  a 
person  like  Lucian  living  on  with  contented  enjoyment,  day 
after  day,  without  any  fortune,  any  hope  of  inheriting  one, 
or  any  effort  towards  obtaining  one.  She  knew  people,  of 
course,  who  had  no  fortunes ;  but  if  young,  as  he  was,  they 
were  all  engaged  in  either  planning  for  them,  waiting  for 
them,  or  working  for  them,  with  more  or  less  eagerness  and 
energy.  Lucian  appeared  to  be  neither  waiting  nor  working, 
and  the  only  plan  he  had  with  regard  to  such  matters  was  to 
go  back  to  the  office  of  the  company  that  employed  him 
(because  he  must),  when  his  summer  should  be  ended ;  so 
long  as  he  was  earning  his  mere  living  from  year  to  year 
(not  a  difficult  task,  as  he  had  no  very  extravagant  tastes, 
and  only  himself  to  provide  for),  he  seemed  to  think  that  he 
was  doing  sufficiently  well  as  regarded  material  things — al 
ways  to  him  subordinate :  a  state  of  mind  which  Rosalie's 
relatives,  if  they  had  known  it,  would  have  deemed  either  a 
negligence  that  was  almost  criminal,  or  downright  idiocy, 
one  or  the  other.  Rosalie  herself,  not  conceiving  such  an 
unambitious  creed  in  a  nature  so  rich,  idealized  what  she  did 
not  understand.  She  dressed  up  this  lack  of  energetic  ac 
quisitiveness,  and  made  of  it  fortitude ;  in  her  long  reveries 
she  grew  at  last  to  think  of  it  in  unspoken  words  which,  if 
written  down,  would  have  been  almost  poetry. 

But  though  she  thus  idealized  his  bravery,  she  did  not 
have  to  idealize  his  kindness ;  that  had  been  real.  He  had 
not  cared  about  her  money,  she  had  divined  that;  what  he 
did  had  been  done  for  herself  alone.  When,  therefore,  they 
met  again,  as  they  did  in  the  winter,  the  acquaintance  con 
tinued  to  grow  because  she  fostered  it ;  she  had  had  time  to 
think  everything  over,  to  realize  what  it  would  be  to  live 
without  it,  during  the  four  months  that  had  passed  since 


308  EAST  ANGELS. 

they  parted.  Lucian,  responsive  and  delightful  as  ever,  and 
never  so  conceited  (this  is  what  he  would  have  called  it)  as 
to  bring  that  pretentious  thing,  conscience,  into  such  a  sim 
ple  matter  as  this,  lent  himself,  as  it  were,  to  her  liking  for 
the  time  being,  whenever  he  happened  to  see  her.  With 
him  it  was  a  temporary  and  even  a  local  interest,  and  he  sup 
posed  it  to  be  the  same  on  her  side ;  when  he  thought  of  the 
part  of  the  city  in  which  she  lived,  he  thought  of  her :  "  Sec 
ond  Avenue — oh  yes,  Miss  Bogardus ;"  but  he  did  not  think 
of  it  or  of  her  for  days  together,  he  was  a  man  who  had  a 
thousand  interests,  who  roamed  in  many  and  widely  differing 
fields.  Meanwhile  Miss  Bogardus  thought  of  him  without 
ceasing;  she  lived  upon  his  visits,  going  over  in  her  own 
mind  the  last  one,  and  all  that  he  had  said,  or  failed  to  say, 
upon  that  occasion,  until  he  had  come  again  ;  she  dwelt  upon 
every  look  and  gesture,  and  made  the  woman's  usual  mistake 
of  giving  a  significance  to  little  acts  and  phrases  which  they 
were  very  far  from  having.  Lucian  did  not  in  the  least  real 
ize  that  he  was  the  subject  of  so  much  reverie;  nor  did  he 
in  the  least  realize  the  absorbed,  concentrated  nature  with 
which  he  had  to  do.  His  life  moved  on  with  its  usual  even 
ness  ;  for  three-quarters  of  the  day  he  occupied  himself  in  a 
third-story  office,  then  he  sallied  forth  to  see  what  the  re 
maining  hours  held  for  him  in  the  way  of  entertainment. 
It  is  but  just  to  say  that  generally  they  held  an  abundance ; 
other  people  liked  him  besides  Rosalie  Bogardus,  he  was  a 
man  who,  from  first  to  last,  was  dear  to  very  many.  About 
once  in  so  often  he  went  to  see  his  friend  of  the  summer; 
he  no  longer  thought  of  her  as  a  person  who  needed  his  help 
especially  ;  but  he  knew  that  a  visit  pleased  her,  and,  when 
<>ther  things  were  not  over-amusing,  he  would  go  for  a  while 
and  give  her  that  trifling  pleasure.  He  never  dreamed  that 
it  was  a  great  one. 

Long  afterwards  the  character  of  Lucian  Spenser  was 
summed  up  as  follows  by  a  man  of  his  own  age  who  had  a 
taste  for  collecting  and  classifying  characteristics;  he  even 
ventured  to  think  such  collections  almost  as  interesting  as 
old  china.  "  He  was  the  most  delightful  and  lovable  fellow 
I  have  ever  known  ;  and  a  great  many  persons  thought  so 
besides  myself.  But  he  never  was  hampered  with,  he  never 


EAST   ANGELS.  309 

took,  a  grain  of  responsibility  in  his  whole  life.  This  not 
from  selfishness,  or  any  particular  plan  for  evading  it ;  he 
simply  never  thought  about  that  at  all." 

This  was  true.  Even  in  the  case  of  so  serious  a  thing  as 
his  marriage,  the  responsibility  was  all  assumed  by  Rosalie. 

How  she  came  to  have  the  idea  that  he  loved  her,  she  her 
self  alone  could  have  told.  Probably  she  was  deceived  by 
his  manner,  which  was  often  intangibly  lover- like  simply 
through  the  genius  for  kindness  that  possessed  him  ;  or  by 
the  tones  which  his  voice  fell  into  now  and  then  when  he 
was  with  any  woman  he  liked,  even  in  a  small  degree.  All 
this  was  general,  for  women  in  general ;  but  poor  concen 
trated  Rosalie,  who  seldom  saw  him  with  other  women, 
thought  that  it  was  for  one.  However  her  belief  had  been 
obtained,  it  was  a  sincere  one ;  and  she  accounted  for  his  si 
lence  by  saying  to  herself  that  he  would  not  speak  on  account 
of  her  fortune.  Here  again  she  completely  misjudged  him  ; 
southerner  as  he  was,  Lucian's  thoughts  did  not  dwell  upon 
money ;  southerner  as  he  was,  too,  twenty  fortunes  would 
not  have  kept  him  from  the  woman  he  loved.  But,  once 
convinced  in  her  own  heart,  Rosalie  no  longer  fought  against 
her  love  for  him — why  should  she  ?  it  was  the  one  bright 
spot  of  her  life.  It  was  possible,  after  all,  then,  for  life  to 
be  happy  ! 

She  worshipped  every  glance  of  his  eye,  every  word  that 
he  spoke ;  it  was  pathetic  to  see  the  adoration  which  that 
repressed  nature  was  lavishing  upon  a  nature  so  different 
from  its  own.  But  no  one  saw  the  adoration  save  Lucian, 
she  concealed  it  from  all  the  world  besides.  For  a  long 
time  even  he  did  not  see  it — he  was  so  accustomed  to  being 
liked.  When  suddenly  he  did  become  aware  of  it  (long  af 
ter  the  evil  was  done),  he  left  her  and  left  New  York.  There 
had  never  been  a  word  of  explanation  between  them. 

Rosalie  did  not  yield ;  she  knew  her  own  heart,  she  knew 
that  she  loved  him,  she  believed  that  he  loved  her;  she  trust 
ed  to  time.  And  meanwhile  she  kept  up  the  acquaintance. 

Here,  again,  Lucian's  invincible  habit  of  kindness  kept 
him  from  telling  her  the  truth,  his  invincible  habit  of  not 
taking  responsibility  made  him  avoid  the  responsibility  of 
telling  her.  He,  too,  trusted  to  time. 


310  EAST  ANGELS. 

And  there  was  time  enough,  certainly ;  that  is,  it  would 
have  been  enough  for  any  one  but  Rosalie  Bogardus.  Five 
years  passed,  five  years  of  all  the  torture  intermixed  with 
delight  which  a  woman  who  loves  goes  through.  Now  and 
then  they  met,  and  she  always  wrote  to  him  ;  she  tried  to 
write  lightly,  as  she  knew  he  liked  that ;  she  anathematized 
herself  for  taking  everything  in  such  a  ponderous  way.  She 
composed  long  letters  about  books,  about  Spanish  and  Ital 
ian,  both  of  which  she  was  studying,  about  music,  and  about 
pictures ;  she  went  to  see  every  picture  she  could  hear  of, 
because  he  painted,  not  realizing,  poor  soul,  that  those  who 
paint  themselves,  especially  those  who  paint  "  a  little,"  do  not 
as  a  general  rule  care  much  for  pictures,  or  at  least  care  only 
for  those  of  a  few  of  their  immediate  contemporaries,  that 
interest  being  principally  curiosity.  Who  fill  the  great  galler 
ies  of  Europe  day  after  day  ?  Who  are  the  people  that  go 
again  and  again  ?  Almost  without  exception  the  people  who 
do  not  paint ;  for  the  people  who  do,  it  is  noticed  that  one 
or  two  visits  amply  suffice. 

But  nature  will  out — at  least  some  natures  will.  At  the 
end  of  these  five  years  of  a  fictitious  existence  Rosalie  Bo 
gardus  fell  seriously  ill ;  her  life  was  threatened.  Then  she 
wrote  three  trembling  lines  to  Lucian,  at  Gracias-a-Dios.  Her 
one  wish  now  was  to  marry  him,  in  order  to  be  able  to  leave 
him  her  fortune ;  she  did  not  allude  to  this,  but  she  said  that 
she  was  probably  dying,  and  hoped  to  see  him  soon.  Lucian, 
kind  as  always,  hurried  north  to  Washington,  where  she  was 
staying  with  some  friends — much  more  independent  now,  as 
regarded  her  relatives,  than  she  had  been  before  the  growth 
of  her  love.  He  married  her ;  it  was  as  well  that  he  had 
been  perfectly  sincere,  when  he  did  so,  in  not  thinking  about 
her  money,  because  her  money  did  not  come  to  him  ;  she  did 
not  die,  but  improved  rapidly ;  in  two  months  she  was  well. 

Mrs.  Lucian  Spenser,  as  has  been  said,  was  not  a  quick  or 
a  clever  woman,  but  she  had  the  clairvoyance  of  love.  A 
year  had  not  passed  since  her  marriage ;  but  it  does  not  take 
a  year  for  a  wife  to  discover  that  her  husband  is  not,  and 
never  has  been,  in  love  with  her,  and  this  wife  had  no  longer 
any  illusions  on  that  subject,  Lucian's  manner  towards  her 
was  invariably  gentle,  his  temper  was  always  sweet;  she  could 


EAST  ANGELS.  311 

say  to  herself,  miserably  enough,  but  truthfully  too,  that  he 
did  not  in  the  least  dislike  her.  If  she  had  known  it,  this 
was  something,  as  things  stood.  But  she  did  not  know  it ; 
how  should  she,  without  a  grain  of  experience,  and  with  her 
passionate  nature,  comprehend  and  endure  the  necessity,  as 
well  as  the  great  wisdom,  of  holding  on  simply  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  his  wife,  and  that  no  one  on  earth  could  rout 
her  from  that  position,  and  that  in  time  his  heart  might  come 
round  to  her?  She  did  know,  however,  she  had  learned,  that 
such  love  as  their  marriage  was  to  have  at  present  must  be 
supplied  principally  bv  herself,  and  she  had  accustomed  her 
mind  to  accept  this  idea ;  if  she  was  ever  discontented,  she 
had  only  to  recall  the  dreary  void  of  her  life  before  she  knew 
him,  arid  she  was  reconciled.  But  while  she  was  still  arrang 
ing  her  existence  upon  these  foundations,  a  new  element 
rose ;  her  jealousy  was  excited,  and  it  was  the  strongest  pas 
sion  she  had.  She  discovered  that  Lucian  was  very  apt  to  be 
more  or  less  in  love  with  every  attractive  woman,  every  love 
ly  young  girl,  he  happened  to  meet.  True,  it  was  only  a  tem 
porary  absorption  ;  but  it  was  real  enough  while  it  lasted. 
To  this  the  jealous  wife  could  not  accustom  herself,  this  she 
found  herself  unable  to  take  "lightly."  All  the  moodiness 
came  back  to  her  eyes,  she  grew  suspicious  and  sharp ;  such 
good  looks  as  she  had  were  obscured,  in  her  unhappiness  she 
seemed  larger  and  more  round-shouldered  than  ever. 

She  was  too  proud  to  appeal  to  her  husband,  to  tell  him 
that  he  was  torturing  her.  So  they  lived  on.  He  was  wholly 
unconscious  of  the  extent  of  her  sufferings,  though  he  knew 
that  she  had  a  jealous  nature;  he  felt  that  he  was  a  good 
husband,  he  had  really  married  her  more  to  please  her  than 
to  please  himself ;  she  had  not  so  much  as  one  unkind  word, 
one  unkind  look,  with  which  to  reproach  him.  He  never 
neglected  her,  she  could  not  say  that  he  did.  She  did  not 
say  it ;  her  only  wish  was  that  he  would  neglect  some  other 
persons.  She  preferred  this  condition  of  things,  however, 
racked  though  she  often  was,  to  any  open  discussions  be 
tween  them,  any  explanations ;  her  instinct  warned  her  that 
explanations  might  be  worse  than  the  reality.  A  woman 
who  loves  is  capable  of  any  cowardice  ;  or  is  it — any  courage? 

Margaret's  little  conversational  cushion   had  brought  to 


312  EAST  ANGELS. 

Mrs.  Spenser's  mind  the  thought  that  she  had  perhaps  been 
speaking  acrimoniously.  She  did  not  mean  to  be  acrimoni 
ous;  but  she  was  not  a  southerner,  as  Lucian  was,  by  birth 
at  least,  and  he  was  making  a  great  deal  of  this  southern 
origin  of  his  whenever  he  was  with  Garda  Thome.  He  was 
with  her  every  day;  true,  his  wife  was  present,  and  other 
persons  ;  and  Garda  herself  was  engaged  to  Mrs.  Rutherford's 
nephew,  Evert  Winthrop,  who  had  gone  north  for  three 
weeks  or  so  on  business  just  before  they  came.  But  there 
might  be  fifty  wives  and  five  hundred  other  persons  present, 
poor  Rosalie  thought,  Lucian  would  look  at  that  beautiful 
girl  and  talk  to  that  beautiful  girl,  engaged  or  not  engaged, 
whenever  he  pleased.  She  accused  him  in  her  heart  of  not 
having  told  her  that  there  was  any  such  person  in  Gracias. 
But  the  truth  was  (and  she  knew  it)  that,  as  she  had  never 
been  able  to  respond  with  sympathy  to  allusions  on  his  part 
to  such  acquaintances,  much  less  to  any  recitals  concerning 
them,  he  had  learned  (as  he  had  not  a  grain  of  malice)  not  to 
make  them.  As  for  Gracias,  she  herself  had  proposed  their 
coming  there ;  she  had  not  cared  to  spend  the  winter  in  New 
York  or  Washington,  and  see  her  husband  cajoled  by  socie 
ty ;  she  had  never  loved  society,  and  now  she  hated  it;  Lu- 
cian's  content  was  not  in  the  least  dependent  upon  it,  fortu 
nately.  He  had  described  this  little  Florida  town  to  her 
with  a  good  deal  of  amusing  decoration,  she  had  thought 
that  she  should  like  to  see  it  for  herself ;  in  her  painstaking, 
devoted  way  she  had  studied  the  sketches  he  had  made  while 
there  until  she  was  much  better  acquainted  with  them  than 
he  was  himself.  There  had  been  no  sketch  of  Garda  Thome, 
no  sketch  in  words  or  water-colors ;  but  perhaps  if  her  jeal 
ousies  had  been  less  evident,  there  might  have  been.  She 
knew  that  her  jealousies  were  a  weakness.  That  did  not 
make  them  any  the  less  hard  to  bear ;  it  was,  each  separate 
time,  as  if  Lucian  and  the  person  he  was  for  the  moment 
admiring  were  engaged  in  stabbing  her  to  the  heart;  only, 
in  some  miraculous  way,  she  lived  on. 

On  the  present  occasion  she  said  no  more  about  southern 
patriotism,  but  gazed  in  silence  at  the  near  shores  as  the 
skiffs  glided  round  the  next  bend.  They  were  in  a  wide  salt- 
marsh,  a  flat  reedy  sea ;  the  horizon  line,  unbroken  by  so 


EAST  ANGELS.  313 

much  as  a  bush,  formed  an  even  circle  round  them.  It  was 
high  tide,  the  myriad  little  channels  were  full,  the  whole 
marsh  was  afloat ;  the  breeze  fanning  their  faces  had  a  strong 
salty  odor,  the  sedges  along  shore  were  stiff  with  brine.  Tall 
herons  waded  about,  or,  poised  on  one  leg  among  the  reeds, 
gazed  at  them,  as  they  passed,  with  high-shouldered  indiffer 
ence  ;  now  and  then  a  gray  bird  rose  from  the  green  as  they 
approached,  and  with  a  whir  of  wings  sped  away  before 
them,  sounding  his  peculiar  wild  cry.  The  blue  seemed  to 
come  down  and  rest  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh  all  round 
them,  like  the  top  of  a  tent;  it  was  like  sailing  through  a 
picture  of  which  they  could  always  see  (though  they  never 
reached  it)  the  frame. 

The  stream  they  were  following  was  not  one  of  the  marsh 
channels;  it  was  a  tide-water  creek  which  penetrated  several 
miles  into  Patricio,  and  after  a  while  they  came  to  the  solid 
land. 

"  The  odor  of  Florida — I  perceive  it,"  said  Lucian  ;  "  the 
odor  of  a  pitch-pine  fire !  And  I  don't  know  any  odor  I  like 
better."  The  stream  wound  on,  the  banks  grew  higher,  pal- 
mettoes  began  to  appear;  they  all  leaned  forward  a  little  in 
the  golden  air,  they  formed  the  most  graceful  groups  of  cu 
riosity.  At  length  as  the  skiffs  turned  the  last  bend,  a  house 
came  into  sight.  It  was  a  ruin. 

But  the  pitch-pine  fire  was  there,  all  the  same ;  it  had  been 
made  on  the  ground  behind  a  small  out-building.  This  out 
building  had  preserved  three  of  its  sides  and  the  framework 
of  its  roof;  the  roof  had  been  completed  by  a  thatch  of  pal 
metto,  the  vanished  facade  had  been  gayly  replaced  by  a 
couple  of  red  calico  counterpanes  suspended  from  the  thatch. 
Here  lived  a  family  of  "poor  whites" — father,  mother,  and 
six  children  ;  their  drawing-room  was  the  green  space  before 
the  kitchen  ;  their  bedchambers  were  behind  the  calico  fa- 
$ade  ;  their  kitchen  was  an  iron  pot,  at  this  moment  suspend 
ed  over  the  fragrant  fire.  The  father  had  just  come  home 
in  his  roughly  made  cart,  drawn  by  the  most  wizened  of  po 
nies,  with  a  bear  which  he  had  killed  in  a  neighboring 
swamp ;  the  elder  boys  were  bringing  up  fish  from  their 
dug-out  in  the  creek;  the  mother,  her  baby  on  her  arm,  lift 
ed  her  bed-quilt  wall  to  smile  hospitably  upon  the  visitors. 


314  EAST  ANGELS. 

They  did  not  own  the  land,  these  people ;  they  were  not  even 
tenants;  they  were  squatters,  and  mere  temporary  squatters 
at  that.  They  had  nothing  in  the  world  beyond  the  few 
poor  possessions  their  cart  could  hold ;  they  were  all  brown 
and  well,  and  apparently  perfectly  happy. 

"  They  look  contented,"  said  Margaret,  as,  after  accepting 
the  hospitalities  of  the  place,  which  the  family  hastened  to 
offer — the  best  in  their  power — a  clean  gourd  with  water 
from  the  mansion's  old  well,  a  look  at  the  bear,  the  baby, 
and  the  pet  alligator  of  tender  years  confined  in  a  pen  near 
by,  they  took  their  way  along  an  old  road  leading  down  the 
island  towards  the  south. 

"  They  are  contented,"  said  Lucian.  "  For  one  thing,  they 
are  never  cold ;  poor  people  can  stand  a  great  deal  when  win 
ter  is  taken  out  of  their  lives.  Here,  too,  they  can  almost 
get  their  food  for  the  asking — certainly  for  the  hunting  and 
fishing.  Yes,  yes :  if  I  had  to  be  very  poor — if  we  had  to 
be  very  poor,  Rosalie — I  should  say,  with  all  my  heart,  let  it 
be  in  Florida !" 

These  sallies  of  Lucian's  fancy  were  always  rather  hard  for 
his  wife ;  she  admired  them,  of  course — she  admired  every 
thing  Lucian  said ;  but  she  could  not  see  any  reasonable  con 
nection  between  their  life,  under  any  emergencies  that  could 
come  to  it,  and  the  life  of  people  who  lived  behind  a  facade 
of  counterpane,  who  caught  bears,  and  ate  them  from  an  iron 
pot.  However,  there  must  be  one,  since  Lucian  saw  it ;  she 
smiled  assent,  therefore,  and  did  her  best  to  answer  warmly, 
"  Oh  yes,  in  Florida !" 

"  But  I  suppose  they  have  very  little  chance  to  improve 
here — to  rise,"  began  Margaret. 

"  I  don't  want  them  to  rise,"  said  Lucian,  in  his  light  way ; 
"too  much  'rising,'  in  my  opinion,  is  the  bane  of  our  Amer 
ican  life.  The  ladder's  free  to  all,  or  rather  the  elevator; 
and  we  spend  our  lives,  the  whole  American  nation,  in  ele 
vators." 

Rosalie  fully  agreed  with  her  husband  here.  This  was  a 
subject  upon  which  she  had  definite  opinions.  She  thought 
that  every  one  should  be  as  charitable  as  possible,  and  she 
herself  lived  up  to  this  belief  by  giving  away  a  generous  sum 
in  charity  every  year.  Her  ideas  were  liberal ;  she  thought 


EAST  ANGELS.  315 

that  "the  poor"  should  have  plenty  of  soup  and  blankets  in 
the  winter,  as  well  as  coals  (somehow,  in  charity,  it  seemed 
more  natural  to  say  "  coals  ") ;  there  should  be  a  Christmas- 
tree  for  every  Sunday-school,  with  a  useful  present  for  each 
child ;  she  would  have  liked,  had  it  been  possible,  to  re-in 
troduce  May-poles  on  May-day ;  May-day  would  come  at  the 
North  about  the  last  of  June.  She  had  a  dislike  for  the  free- 
school  system  ;  she  thought  school-girls  should  not  have  heels 
to  their  shoes ;  she  thought  there  should  be  a  property  quali 
fication  attached  to  the  suffrage.  She  looked  at  Torres,  who 
was  by  her  side,  wondering  if  he  would  understand  these 
ideas  if  she  should  explain  them ;  and  she  thought  that  per 
haps  he  might.  She  was  doing  her  best,  as  Lucian's  wife — 
she  had  been  doing  it  ever  since  she  arrived  in  Gracias — to 
discover  the  "  gold  mine  "  which  he  saw  in  this  young  man  ; 
so  far  (as  she  had  but  little  sense  of  humor)  she  had  not  suc 
ceeded.  Once  she  asked  Lucian  what  it  was  that  he  found 
so  amusing  in  the  Cuban. 

"  Oh,  well,  he  has  so  many  fixed  ideas,  you  know,"  Lucian 
answered. 

His  wife  said  nothing,  she,  too,  had  fixed  ideas ;  she  could 
not  see,  though  she  tried  to,  humbly  enough,  how  any  one 
could  help  having  them.  Torres  could  now  speak  a  little 
English ;  but  as  Rosalie  could  talk  in  Spanish  in  a  slow, 
measured  sort  of  way,  their  conversations,  which  were  never 
lively,  were  carried  on  in  the  last-named  language ;  it  was 
understood  in  Gracias  that  they  were  "  great  friends." 

Torres  had  been  brought  from  his  retirement  by  Lucian. 
Lucian,  who  told  everybody  that  he  delighted  in  him,  had 
gone  down  to  the  Giron  plantation  to  find  him  on  the  very 
day  of  his  arrival  in  Gracias ;  and  Torres,  yielding  to  his 
friend's  entreaties,  had  consented  to  appear  again  in  "  so 
ciety." 

In  his  own  estimation,  the  Cuban  had  never  swerved  from 
his  original  posture  of  waiting.  He  had  not  believed  one 
word  of  his  aunt's  story  of  Garda's  engagement ;  women  were 
credulous  where  betrothals  were  concerned ;  they  were,  in 
deed,  congenitally  weak  in  all  such  matters.  Manuel — a  mas 
culine  mind  though  unregulated  —  was  still  absent,  engaged 
in  seeing  the  world  (at  Key  West)  ;  but  he  had  been  able  to 


316  EAST  ANGELS. 

obtain  a  good  deal  of  consolation  from  the  society  of  the 
Senor  Ruiz,  who  had  not  credited  the  ridiculous  tale  any 
more  than  he  himself  had. 

He  had  first  heard  of  the  senor's  disbelief  through  Madam 
Giron  ;  he  immediately  went  over  to  Patricio  to  pay  his  re 
spects  to  him.  Since  then  he  had  paid  his  respects  regu 
larly  on  Wednesdays  and  Fridays,  just  before  sundown.  The 
two  never  alluded  to  the  story  when  they  were  together, 
they  would  have  considered  it  ill-bred  to  speak  familiarly 
of  such  private  matters.  True,  the  Senor  Ruiz,  having  been 
confined  for  a  long  time  to  his  arm-chair,  had  grown  a  lit 
tle  lax  in  the  strict  practice  of  etiquette,  and  it  may  have 
been  that  he  would  have  enjoyed  just  a  trifle  of  conversation 
upon  the  rumor  in  question.  But  Torres  was  firm,  Torres 
kept  him  up  to  the  mark ;  the  subject  had  never  once  been 
put  into  actual  words,  though  the  Senor  Ruiz  skirted  all 
round  it,  talking  now  about  Winthrop,  now  about  East  An 
gels,  now  about  the  detention  of  the  northern  party  all  sum 
mer,  owing  to  the  long  illness  of  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "  that  ma 
jestic  and  distinguished  lady." 

The  Senor  Ruiz  had  had  time  to  skirt  round  every  subject 
he  knew,  Torres  having  paid  his  biweekly  respects  regularly 
now  for  eight  long  months.  Torres  said  that  there  was  much 
"  hidden  congeniality  "  between  them  ;  on  the  Senor  Ruiz's 
side  the  congeniality  was  extremely  well  hidden,  so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  discover  it.  But  on 
Torres'  side  it  was  veritable,  he  had  found  that  he  could  think 
of  Garda  with  especial  comfort  over  there  on  quiet  Patricio, 
in  the  presence  of  a  masculine  mind  so  much  resembling  his 
own ;  and  think  of  her  he  did  by  the  hour,  answering  with 
a  bow  and  brief  word  or  two  now  and  then  the  long  despair 
ing  monologues  of  the  Senor  Ruiz,  who,  impelled  by  his 
Spanish  politeness  to  keep  up  the  conversation,  was  often 
driven  into  frenzy  (concealed)  by  the  length  of  time  during 
which  his  visitor  remained  seated  opposite  to  him,  stiff  as  a 
wooden  statue,  and  almost  equally  silent. 

Because  the  poor  senor  could  not  move  his  legs  very  easi 
ly,  Torres  (on  much  the  same  principle  which  induces  people 
to  elevate  their  voices  when  speaking  to  a  foreigner,  as  though 
he  were  deaf)  always  sat  very  near  him,  so  that  their  knees 


EAST  ANGELS.  317 

were  not  more  than  two  inches  apart.  This  also  enraged  the 
Sefior  Ruiz,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion,  when  fingering 
the  cane  which  always  stood  beside  him,  he  had  come  near 
to  bringing  it  down  with  violence  upon  the  offending  joints ; 
the  unconscious  Adolfo  little  knew  how  near  he  had  come  to 
a  bone-breaking  occurrence  of  that  sort. 

"  Two  years,"  Torres  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  to  himself 
during  these  Patricio  meditations;  "they  were  safe  enough 
in  putting  off  the  verification  of  their  impossible  gossip  until 
then."  The  matter  stood  arranged  in  his  mind  as  follows : 
Mr.  Wintup  was  an  old  man,  he  was  older  than  they  knew ; 
he  was  probably  nearly  forty.  It  was  a  pastime  for  him,  at 
that  dull  age,  to  amuse  himself  for  a  while  with  the  role  of 
father.  And  he  filled  it  well,  Torres  had  no  fault  to  find  with 
him  here ;  to  the  Cuban,  Winthrop's  manner  fully  took  its 
place  in  the  class  "  parental ;"  it  was  at  once  too  familiar  and 
too  devoid  of  ardor  to  answer  in  the  least  to  his  idea  of  what 
the  manner  of  "a  suitor"  should  be.  The  most  rigid  and 
distant  respect  covering  every  word  and  look,  as  the  winter 
snow  covers  Vesuvius;  but  underneath,  all  the  same,  the 
gleam  of  the  raging  hidden  fires  below — that  was  his  idea  of 
the  "  manner."  Owing  to  the  strange  lack  of  discrimination 
sometimes  to  be  observed  in  Fate,  Garda  had  had  a  northern 
mother  (an  estimable  woman  in  herself,  of  course);  on  ac 
count  of  this  accident,  she  had  been  intrusted  for  a  while  to 
these  strangers.  But  this  would  come  to  an  end  ;  these  north 
erners  would  go  away ;  they  would  return  to  their  remote 
homes  and  Gracias  would  know  them  no  more.  Garda,  of 
course,  would  never  consent  to  go  with  them  ;  it  was  but  rea 
sonable  to  suppose,  therefore  (they  being  amiable  people), 
that  they  would  be  pleased  to  see  her  make  a  fit  Alliance  be 
fore  their  departure ;  and  there  was  but  one  that  could  be 
called  fit.  It  was  not  improbable,  indeed,  that  the  whole  had 
been  planned  as  a  test  of  his  own  qualities;  they  wished  to 
see  whether  he  had  equanimity,  endurance.  One  had  to  for 
give  them  their  ignorance — the  doubting  whether  or  not  he 
possessed  these  qualities — as  one  had  to  forgive  them  many 
other  things;  they  should  see,  at  any  rate,  how  triumphantly 
he  should  issue  from  their  trial. 

He  now  walked  down  the  old  road  with  his  usual  circum- 


318  EAST  ANGELS. 

spect  gait;  he  was  with  Lucian's  wife,  whom  he  alwa3Ts  treat 
ed  with  the  respect  due  to  an  elderly  lad}7. 

Lucian  was  first,  with  Garda;  he  had  gathered  for  her  some 
sprays  of  wild  blossoms,  and  these  she  was  combining  in  va 
rious  ways  as  she  walked.  She  scarcely  spoke.  But  her  si 
lence  seemed  only  part  of  a  supreme  indolent  content. 

Mrs.  Spenser  was  behind  with  Torres — close  behind.  Mar 
garet,  too,  did  not  linger;  Mr.  Moore,  who  was  with  her, 
would  have  preferred,  perhaps,  a  less  direct  advance,  a  few 
light  expeditions  into  the  neighboring  thickets,  for  instance  ; 
he  carried  his  butterfly  pole,  and  looked  about  him  scrutiniz- 
ingly.  They  were  going  in  search  of  an  old  tomb,  which 
Laician  was  to  sketch.  It  was  a  mysterious  old  tomb,  no  one 
had  any  idea  who  lay  there ;  the  ruined  mansion  they  had 
passed  had  its  own  little  burial-ground,  standing  in  a  circle 
of  trees  like  the  one  at  East  Angels ;  but  this  old  tomb  was 
alone  in  the  woods,  isolated  and  unaccounted  for ;  there  was 
no  trace  of  a  house  or  any  former  cultivation  near.  Its  four 
stone  sides  were  standing,  but  the  top  slab  was  gone,  and 
from  within — there  was  no  mound — grew  a  cedar  known  to 
be  so  ancient  that  it  threw  back  the  lifetime  of  the  person 
who  lay  beneath  to  unrecorded  days ;  for  he  must  have  been 
placed  at  rest  there  before  the  old  tree,  as  a  baby  sapling, 
had  raised  its  miniature  head  above  the  ground. 

They  had  advanced  about  a  mile,  when  Mrs.  Spenser  stop 
ped,  she  found  herself  unable  to  go  farther ;  she  made  her 
confession  with  curt  speech  and  extreme  reluctance.  They 
all  looked  at  her  and  saw  her  fatigue ;  that  made  her  more 
curt  still.  But  it  could  not  be  helped  ;  she  was  flushed  in 
an  even  dark  red  hue  all  over  her  face  from  the  edge  of  her 
hair  to  her  throat ;  she  was  breathing  quickly ;  her  hands 
shook.  The  heat  had  affected  her;  she  was  always  affected 
by  the  heat,  and  it  was  a  warm  day ;  she  had  never  been  in 
the  habit  of  walking  far. 

"You  must  not  go  another  step,  Rosalie,"  said  Lucian, 
who  had  come  back  to  her ;  "the  others  can  go  on,  and  I  will 
wait  here  with  you.  When  you  are  quite  rested  we  will  go 
slowly  back  to  the  shore ;  there  will  still  be  time,  I  presume, 
for  me  to  get  in  my  sketch." 

But  Rosalie  never  could  bear  to  givre  her  husband  trouble. 


EAST  ANGELS.  319 

"  I  will  wait  here,"  she  said,  "  but  you  need  not.  Please  go 
with  the  others,  as  you  first  intended  ;  you  will  find  me  here 
on  your  way  back." 

'*  I  shall  stay  with  you,"  repeated  Lucian. 

She  looked  so  tired  that  they  all  busied  themselves  in  pr& 
paring  a  seat  for  her;  they  made  it  of  t-he  light  mantles 
which  the  ladies  had  been  carrying  over  their  arms,  spread 
ing  them  on  the  ground  under  a  large  tree  where  there  was 
a  circle  of  shade.  Here  she  sat  down,  leaning  against  the 
tree's  trunk.  "  If  you  don't  go  on  with  the  others,  Lucian, 
I  shall  be  perfectly  wretched,"  she  said.  "  There's  nothing 
in  the  world  the  matter  with  me ;  you  have  seen  me  in  this 
way  before,  and  you  know  it  is  nothing — I  have  only  lost 
my  breath." 

"Yes,  I  know  it's  nothing,"  Lucian  answered,  kindly. 
"But  I  cannot  leave  you  here  alone,  Rosalie;  don't  ask  it." 

Mr.  Moore,  who  had  been  standing  with  his  hands  patient 
ly  folded  over  his  butterfly  pole,  now  had  an  inspiration  ;  it 
was  that  he  himself  should  remain  with  "  Cousin  Rosalie." 
"  I  have  no  talent  for  sketching,"  he  said,  looking  round 
upon  them ;  "  really  none  whatever,  I  assure  you ;  thus  it 
will  be  no  deprivation.  And  I  have  observed  some  interest 
ing  butterflies  in  this  neighborhood,  which  I  should  like  to 
obtain,  if  possible." 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  all  desert  Mr.  Spenser  ?"  said  Marga 
ret.  "  I  have  no  doubt  his  sketch  will  be  much  more  pictur 
esque  than  the  reality.  It's  very  warm  ;  I  don't  think  any 
of  us  (those  not  inspired  by  artistic  intentions)  care  to  go 
farther." 

Mrs.  Spenser  watched  her  husband's  face,  she  was  afraid 
he  would  not  be  pleased.  But  under  no  circumstances  was 
Lucian  ever  ill-natured.  He  now  made  all  manner  of  sport 
of  their  laziness,  singling  out  Torres  especially  as  the  target 
for  his  wit.  Torres  grinned — Lucian  was  the  only  person 
who  could  bring  out  that  grin;  then  he  repressed  his  un 
seemly  mirth  by  passing  his  hand  over  his  face,  the  thumb 
on  one  side,  all  the  fingers  on  the  other,  and  letting  them 
move  downward  and  come  together  at  the  chin,  thus  clos 
ing  in  the  grin  on  the  way.  Restored  to  his  usual  demeanor, 
he  bowed  and  was  ready  for  whatever  should  be  the  ladies' 


320  EAST  ANGELS. 

pleasure.  Their  pleasure,  after  Lucian's  departure,  was  sim 
ply  to  recline  under  the  large  tree ;  Mr.  Moore  had  already 
begun  his  search  in  the  neighboring  thickets,  and  was  wind 
ing  in  and  out,  now  in  sight,  now  gone  again,  with  alert  step 
and  hopeful  eye. 

The  three  ladies  sat  idly  perforating  the  ground  with  the 
tips  of  their  closed  parasols.  "  What  are  we  going  to  do  to 
amuse  ourselves?"  said  Garda. 

"You  think  a  good  deal  of  your  amusement,  don't  you, 
Miss  Thorne?"  said  Rosalie.  She  spoke  in  rather  an  acid 
tone ;  Lucian,  too,  thought  a  good  deal  of  his  amusement. 

But  Garda  never  noticed  Rosalie's  intonations ;  acid  or  not, 
they  never  seemed  to  reach  her.  "Yes;  I  hate  to  be  just 
dull,  you  know,"  she  answered,  frankly.  "I'd  much  rather 
be  asleep." 

Torres  was  standing  at  the  edge  of  their  circle  of  shade  in 
his  usual  taut  attitude. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Torres,  do  either  sit  down  or  lie  down,"  urged 
Garda ;  "  it  tires  me  to  look  at  you  !  If  you  won't  do  either, 
then  go  and  lean  against  a  tree." 

Torres  looked  about  him  with  serious  eyes.  There  was  a 
tree  at  a  little  distance  which  had  no  low  branches  ;  he  went 
over  and  placed  himself  close  to  it,  his  back  on  a  line  with 
the  trunk,  but  without  touching  it. 

"You're  not  leaning,"  said  Garda.     "Lean  back!    Lean!" 

Thus  adjured,  Torres  stiffly  put  his  head  back  far  enough 
to  graze  the  bark.  But  the  rest  of  his  person  stood  clear. 

"Oh,  how  funny  you  always  are!"  said  Garda,  breaking 
into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

Torres  did  not  stir.  He  was  very  happy  to  furnish  amuse 
ment  for  the  sefiorita,  inscrutable  as  the  nature  of  it  might  be; 
it  never  occurred  to  Torres  that  his  attitudes  were  peculiar. 

But  Garda  was  now  seized  with  another  idea,  which  was 
that  they  should  lunch  where  they  were,  instead  of  at  the 
shore ;  it  was  much  prettier  here,  as  the  shore  was  sandy ; 
the  squatter's  boys  would  be  delighted  to  bring  the  baskets. 
Torres,  no  longer  required  to  make  a  Daphne  of  himself,  was 
detached  from  the  bark  and  sent  upon  this  errand,  he  was  to 
convoy  back  baskets  and  boys ;  obedient  as  ever,  he  depart 
ed.  And  then  Garda  relapsed  into  silence ;  after  a  while 


EAST  ANGELS.  321 

she  put  her  head  down  on  Margaret's  lap,  as  if  she  were 
going  to  try  the  condition  that  was  better  than  being  "  just 
dull,  yon  know."  It  was  true  that  they  were  a  little  dull. 
Mr.  Moore  had  entirely  disappeared ;  Rosalie  was  never  very 
scintillant ;  Garda  was  apparently  asleep ;  Margaret,  what 
ever  her  gifts  might  have  been,  could  not  very  well  be  brilliant 
all  alone.  After  a  while  Garda  suddenly  opened  her  eyes, 
took  up  her  hat,  and  rose. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  down,  after  all,  and  join  Mr.  Spenser," 
she  said.  "I  like  to  watch  him  sketch  so  much;  I'll  bring 
him  back  in  an  hour  or  so." 

.Rosalie's  eyes  flashed.  But  she  controlled  herself.  "Aren't 
you  afraid  of  the  heat?"  she  asked. 

"  Don't  go,  Garda,"  said  Margaret.     "It's  very  warm." 

"  You  forget,  you  two,  that  I  was  born  here,  and  like  the 
heat,"  said  Garda,  looking  for  her  gloves. 

"  Surely  it  cannot  be  safe  for  you  to  go  alone,"  pursued 
Rosalie.  "  We  are  very  far  from — from  everything  here." 

"It's  safe  all  about  Gracias,"  answered  Garda.  "  And  we're 
not  very  far  from  Lncian  at  least ;  I  shall  find  him  at  the  end 
of  the  path,  it  goes  only  there." 

It  was  a  simple  slip  of  the  tongue ;  she  had  talked  so 
constantly  of  him,  and  always  as  "  Lucian,"  to  Margaret  and 
Winthrop  the  winter  before,  that  it  was  natural  for  her  to 
use  the  name.  She  would  never  have  dreamed  of  using  it 
merely  to  vex  Mrs.  Spenser ;  to  begin  with,  she  would  not 
have  taken  the  trouble  for  Mrs.  Spenser,  not  even  the  trou 
ble  to  vex  her. 

"I  fear  Lucian,  as  you  call  him,  will  hardly  appreciate 
your  kindness,"  responded  Rosalie,  stiffly.  "  He  is  fond  of 
sketching  by  himself ;  and  especially,  when  he  has  once  be 
gun,  he  cannot  bear  to  be  interrupted." 

"  I  shall  not  interrupt  him,"  said  Garda.  "  I  hardly  think 
he  calls  me  an  interruption." 

She  spoke  carelessly ;  her  carelessness  about  it  increased 
Mrs.  Spenser's  inward  indignation. 

"Do  you  sanction  this  wild-goose  chase,  Mrs.  Harold  ?" 
she  said,  turning  to  Margaret,  with  a  stiff  little  laugh. 

"No,  no;  Garda  is  not  really  going,  I  think,"  Margaret 
answered. 

21 


322  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Yes,  Margaret,  this  time  I  am,"  said  Garda's  undisturbed 
voice. 

Mrs.  Spenser  waited  a  moment.  Then  she  rose.  "We 
will  all  go,"  she  said,  with  a  good  deal  of  dignity ;  "  I  could 
not  feel  easy,  and  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Harold  could,  to  have 
you  go  alone,  Miss  Thome." 

"I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  be  afraid  of — unless  you 
mean  poor  Lucian,"  said  Garda,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Spenser  rested  her  hands  upon  her  arms  with  a  firm 
pressure,  the  right  hand  on  the  top  of  the  left  arm,  the  left 
hand  under  the  right  arm  as  a  support.  In  this  pose  (which 
gave  her  a  majestic  appearance)  she  left  the  shade,  and 
walked  towards  the  path. 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  suffer  from  the  heat,"  said  Garda, 
guilelessly.  It  really  was  guileless — a  guileless  indifference ; 
but  to  a  large,  dark,  easily  flushed  woman  it  sounded  much 
like  malice. 

They  had  gone  but  a  short  distance  when  Garda's  prophe 
cy  came  true;  the  deep  red  hue  re -appeared,  it  was  even 
darker  than  before.  Margaret  was  alarmed.  "Do  go  back 
to  the  shade,"  she  urged. 

Mrs.  Spenser,  who  had  stopped  for  a  moment,  glanced  at 
her  strangely.  "  I  am  perfectly  well,"  she  answered,  in  a 
husky  whisper. 

Margaret  looked  at  Garda,  who  was  standing  at  a  little 
distance,  waiting.  The  girl,  who  was  much  amused  by  this 
scene,  mutely  laughed  and  shook  her  head ;  evidently  she 
would  not  yield. 

"  I  will  go  on  with  Garda,"  Margaret  said ;  "  but  I  beg 
you  not  to  attempt  it,  Mrs.  Spenser." 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going,"  murmured  Rosalie,  her  eyes  still 
shining  strangely  from  her  copper-colored  face. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going,"  answered  Margaret,  with  decision. 

Rosalie  said  something  about  its  being  "  much  better,"  as 
the  road  was  "  so  lonely ;"  and  then,  turning,  she  made  her 
way  back  to  the  tree. 

"  It's  not  like  you,  Garda,  to  be  so  wilful,"  said  Margaret, 
when  she  was  out  of  hearing. 

"Why,  yes,  it  is.  Your  will  is  nice  and  beautiful,  so  I 
don't  come  into  conflict  with  it;  hers  isn't, so  I  do.  /don't 


EAST  ANGELS.  323 

weigh  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds,  and  /  don't  mind 
the  heat ;  why,  then,  should  I  sit  under  a  tree  forever  be 
cause  she  has  to  ?" 

"  I  wish  you  would  sit  under  it  to  oblige  me." 

"It  isn't  to  oblige  you,  it's  to  oblige  Mrs. Rosalie ;  I  can't 
possibly  take  the  trouble  to  oblige  Mrs.  Rosalie.  You  don't 
really  mind  the  sun  any  more  than  I  do,  you  slim  fair  thing! 
it's  all  pretence.  Let  red  people  sit  under  trees ;  you  and  I 
will  go  on."  She  put  her  arm  round  Margaret  and  drew  her 
forward.  "  Don't  be  vexed  with  me ;  you  know  I  love  you 
better  than  anything  else  on  earth." 

"  Yet  never  wish  to  please  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  But  I  please  you  as  I  am.  Is  that  imperti 
nent?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Margaret,  gravely. 

"It's  your  fault,  then;  you've  spoiled  me.  When  have 
you  done  one  thing  or  said  one  thing  through  all  this  long 
summer  which  was  not  extraordinarily  kind?  Nobody  in 
the  world,  Margaret,  has  ever  dreamed  of  being  as  devoted 
to  me  as  you  have  been.  And  if  that's  impertinent  too — 
the  saying  so — I  can't  help  it;  it's  true." 

Margaret  made  no  reply  to  this  statement,  which  had  been 
made  without  the  least  vanity ;  it  had  been  made,  indeed, 
with  a  detached  impartiality  which  was  remarkable,  as  though 
the  girl  had  been  speaking  of  some  one  else. 

Rosalie  watched  their  two  figures  go  down  the  path  out 
of  sight.  A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Moore  made  a  brief  ap 
pearance,  flying  with  extended  pole  across  the  glade  like  a 
man  possessed.  But  he  had  seen  that  she  was  alone,  and  he 
therefore  returned,  after  he  had  not  succeeded  in  catching 
his  prey ;  he  sat  down  beside  her,  and  asked  her  if  she  had 
read  the  Westover  Manuscript. 

Margaret  and  Garda  reached  the  path's  end — it  ended  in 
a  wood — and  found  Lucian  sketching.  c  ^  >~ 

"  Ah-h-h  !  curiosity  !"  he  said,  as  they  came  up. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Garda,  seating  herself  on  the  ground  be 
side  him,  and,  as  usual,  taking  off  her  hat;  "  I  never  was  so 
curious  in  my  life.  Show  me  your  sketch,  please." 

He  held  it  towards  her. 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  bent  from  his  camp-stool,  she  did 


324  EAST  ANGELS. 

not  appear  to  be  so  curious  as  her  previous  statement  had 
seemed  to  indicate.  She  smiled  and  fell  into  her  old  silence 
again  as  he  returned  to  his  work,  that  silence  of  tranquil 
enjoyment,  leaving  Margaret  to  carry  on  the  conversation,  in 
case  she  should  wish  for  conversation. 

Apparently  Margaret  wished  for  it.  She,  too,  was  resting 
in  the  shade;  she  spoke  of  various  things  —  of  the  white 
bird  they  had  seen  sitting  on  its  nest,  which  had  been  con 
structed  across  the  whole  top  of  a  small  tree,  so  that  the 
white -bosomed  mother  sat  enthroned  amid  the  green;  of 
the  song  of  the  mocking-birds,  which  had  made  a  greater 
impression  upon  her  than  anything  in  Florida ;  and  so  on. 

"  Excuse  my  straying  answers,"  said  Lucian,  after  a  while. 
"  However,  painting  is  not  so  bad  as  solitaire ;  did  you  ever 
have  the  felicity  of  conversing  with  a  friend  (generally  a 
lady)  while  a  third  person  is  engaged  at  the  same  table  with 
that  interesting  game?  Your  lady  listens  to  you  with  ap 
parent  attention,  you  are  led  on,  perhaps,  to  talk  your  best, 
when  suddenly,  as  you  least  expect  it,  her  hand  gives  a  swoop 
down  on  her  friend's  spread-out  cards,  she  moves  one  of  them 
quickly,  with  a  *  There  !'  or  else  an  inarticulate  little  murmur 
of  triumph  over  his  heedlessness,  and  then  transfers  her  gaze 
back  to  you  again,  with  an  innocent  candor  which  seems  to 
say  that  it  has  never  been  abstracted.  I  don't  know  anything 
pleasanter  than  conversation  under  such  circumstances." 

Margaret  laughed.  "  Come,  Garda,  let  us  go  and  have  a 
nearer  look."  For  Lucian  had  placed  himself  at  some  dis 
tance  from  the  tomb ;  he  was  giving  a  view  of  it  at  the  end 
of  a  forest  vista. 

But  Garda  did  not  care  for  a  nearer  look.  She  had  seen 
the  old  tomb  many  times. 

"  Let  us  make  a  wreath  for  it,  then,  while  Mr.  Spenser  is 
sketching.  So  that  it  can  feel  that  for  once — " 

"  It's  too  old  to  feel,"  said  Garda. 

Margaret  gathered  a  quantity  of  a  glossy-leaved  vine  which 
was  growing  over  some  bushes  near.  "  I  shall  make  a  wreath, 
even  if  you  don't,"  she  said.  And  she  sat  down  and  began 
her  task. 

"  I  think  this  will  do,"  said  Lucian,  after  another  ten  min 
utes,  surveying  his  work.  "  I  can  finish  it  up  at  home." 


EAST  ANGELS.  325 

Margaret  threw  down  her  vines,  and  began  to  help  him 
collect  his  scattered  possessions. 

"  Don't  go  yet ;  it's  so  lovely  here,"  said  Garda.  "  Make 
a  second  sketch  for  me." 

"  I  will  copy  you  one  from  this,"  he  answered. 

"  No,  I  want  one  made  especially  for  me,  even  if  it's  only 
a  bee-inning;  and  I  want  it  made  here." 

"But  we  really  ought  to  be  going  back,  Garda,"  said 
Margaret. 

"I  never  want  to  go  back,"  Garda  declared.  She  laughed 
as  she  said  it.  But  she  looked  at  Lucian  with  the  same  se 
rene  content;  it  was  very  infectious,  he  sank  down  on  his 
camp-stool,  and  began  again. 

Margaret  stood  a  moment  as  if  uncertain.  Then  she  sat 
down  beside  Garda,  and  went  on  with  her  wreath. 

"  How  perfectly  still  it  is  here  !"  said  Lucian.  "  Florida's 
a  very  still  land,  there  are  no  hot  sounds  any  more  than  cold 
ones;"  what's  your  idea  of  the  hottest  sound  you  know, Mrs. 
Harold?" 

Margaret  considered.  "The  sound— coming  in  through 
your  closed  green  blinds  on  a  warm  summer  afternoon  when 
you  want  to  sleep — of  a  stone-mason  chipping  away  on  a 
large  block  of  stone  somewhere,  out  in  the  hot  sun." 

"Good !  Do  you  know  the  peculiar  odor  made  by  summer 
rain  on  those  same  green  blinds  you  speak  of?  Dusty  ones  ?" 

"  They  needn't  be  dusty.     Yes,  I  know  it  well." 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  an  observer ;  I  hope  you  don't  turn 
the  talent  towards  nature?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  people  who  observe  nature  don't  observe  their 
fellow-man ;  the  more  devoted  you  are  to  rocks  and  trees, 
and  zoophytes  and  moths,  the  less  you  care  for  human  be 
ings;  bless  you!  didn't  you  know  that?  You  get  to  think 
ing  of  them  in  general,  lumping  them  as  'humanity.'  But 
you  always  think  of  the  zoophytes  in  minutest  particulars." 
"  Never  mind  sketching  the  tomb  ;  sketch  me,"  said  Garda. 
Margaret  and  Lucian  "looked  up ;  she  appeared  to  have 
heard  nothing  that  they  had  been  saying,  she  was  sitting 
with  her  hands  clasped"  round  one  knee,  her  head  thrown 
back. 


326  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Sketch  you  ?"  Lucian  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.     "  Please  begin  at  once." 

"In  that  attitude?" 

"  You  may  choose  your  attitude." 

"  Oh,  if  I  may  choose  !"  he  said,  springing  up.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  at  her  as  she  sat  there.  Unrepressed 
admiration  of  her  beauty  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  could  paint  portraits,  Mr.  Spenser," 
remarked  Margaret. 

"I  can  now ;  at  least  I  shall  try,"  he  answered,  with  en 
thusiasm.  "  Will  you  give  me  all  the  sittings  I  want,  Miss 
Thome  3" 

"  Yes.     This  is  the  first." 

"  To-morrow — "  began  Margaret. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  keep  this  position  ?"  said  Garda. 

"Yes  —  no.  It  shall  be  an  American  Poussin  —  'I  too 
have  been  in '  Florida !  Come  over  to  the  tomb,  please." 
In  his  eagerness  he  put  out  his  hands,  took  hers,  and  assisted 
her  to  rise ;  they  went  to  the  tomb.  Here  he  placed  her  in 
two  or  three  different  positions ;  but  was  satisfied  with  none 
of  them. 

Margaret  had  made  no  further  objections.  She  followed 
them  slowly.  Then  her  manner  changed,  she  gave  her  as 
sistance  and  advice.  "She  should  be  carrying  flowers,  I 
think,"  she  suggested. 

"  Yes  ;  branches  of  blossoms — I  see  them,"  said  Lucian. 

"  But  as  for  the  attitude — perhaps  we  had  better  leave  it 
to  her.  Suppose  yourself,  Garda,  to  be  particularly  happy — " 

"  I'm  happy  now,"  said  the  girl.  She  had  seated  herself 
on  the  old  tomb's  edge,  and  folded  her  hands. 

"  Well,  more  joyous,  then." 

"  I'm  joyous." 

"  I  shall  never  finish  my  legend  if  you  interrupt  me  so," 
said  Margaret,  putting  her  hand  on  Garda's  shoulder.  "  Lis 
ten  ;  you  are  on  your  way  home  from  an  Arcadian  revel, 
with  some  shepherds  who  are  playing  on  their  pipes,  when 
you  come  suddenly  upon  an  old  tomb  in  the  forest.  No  one 
knows  who  lies  there ;  you  stop  a  moment  to  make  out  the 
inscription,  which  is  barely  legible,  and  it  tells  yon,  *  I  too 
lived  in—' " 


EAST  ANGELS.  327 

"  Florida !"  said  Lucian. 

"  I  am  to  do  that  ?"  asked  Garda,  looking  at  him. 

He  nodded.  She  went  back,  took  Margaret's  nearly  fin 
ished  wreath  and  all  the  rest  of  the  gathered  vines,  and  re 
turning  to  the  tomb,  one  arm  loaded  with  them,  the  long 
sprays  falling  over  her  dress,  she  laid  her  other  hand  on  Lu- 
cian's  shoulder,  and  drawing  him  near  the  old  stones,  clung 
to  him  a  little  as  if  half  afraid,  bending  her  head  at  the  same 
time  as  though  reading  the  inscription  which  was  supposed 
to  be  written  there.  The  attitude  was  extremely  graceful,  a 
half-shrinking,  half-fascinated  curiosity.  "  This  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world  !  What  has  Mr.  Spenser  to 
do  with  it  ?"  said  Margaret. 

"  He's  the  Arcadian  shepherds." 

"  Let  me  place  you."     And  Margaret  drew  her  away. 

Garda  yielded  passively.  Nothing  could  have  been  sweet 
er  than  the  expression  of  her  face  when  Margaret  had  at 
length  satisfied  herself  as  regarded  position.  The  girl  stood 
behind  the  tomb,  which  rose  a  little  higher  than  her  knees; 
she  rested  one  hand  on  its  gray  edge,  holding  the  wreath  on 
her  other  arm,  which  was  pressed  against  her  breast. 

"  You  ought  to  be  looking  down,"  said  Margaret. 

But  Garda  did  not  look  down. 

"  She  is  supposed  to  have  read  the  inscription,  and  to  bo 
musing  over  it,"  suggested  Lucian. 

He  fell  to  work  immediately. 

"  We  have  been  here  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  we  promised 
to  be  back  in  an  hour — remember  that,  Mr.  Spenser,"  said 
Margaret,  who  had  seated  herself  near  him. 

"  The  bare  outlines,"  murmured  Lucian. 

He  did  not  appear  to  wish  to  speak.  As  for  Garda,  she 
looked  as  though  she  should  never  speak  again  ;  she  looked 
like  a  picture  more  than  a  real  presence — a  picture,  but  not 
of  nineteenth-century  painting.  She  did  not  stir,  her  eyes 
were  full  of  a  wonderful  light.  After  a  while  it  seemed  to 
oppress  Margaret — this  glowing  vision  beside  the  gray  tomb 
in  the  still  wood.  She  rose  and  went  to  Lucian,  watching 
him  work,  she  began  to  talk.  "  It's  fortunate  that  you  havo 
already  sketched  the  tomb,"  she  said ;  "  you  can  use  that 
sketch  for  the  details." 


32S  MAST  ANGELS. 

lie1  did  not  reply,  Garda's  softly  fixed  eyes  seemed  to  hold 
him  bound. 

Margaret  looked  at  her  watch  ;  then  she  went  to  Garda, 
took  the  wreath  from  her,  and,  putting  her  arm  in  hers,  led 
her  hack  towards  the  path.  "  1  am  obliged  to  use  force," 
she  said.  "  The  sitting  is  declared  over." 

"Till  the  next,  then,"  said  Garda  to  Lueian. 

As  he  began  to  pack  up  his  sketching  materials,  Margaret 
went  back  and  hung  her  wreath  upon  the  old  stones.  "  In 
some  future  world,  that  shade  will  come  and  thank  me,"  she 
said. 

Then  they  left  the  wood,  and  started  down  the  path  on 
their  way  back  to  the  shore. 

They  found  Mrs.  Spenser  with  both  complexion  and  tem 
per  improved  ;  her  greatest  wish  always  was  to  hide  her  jeal 
ousies  from  Lueiai),  and  this  time  she  succeeded.  Mr.  Moore 
had  made  a  fire  at  a  distance,  and  boiled  their  eotTee  ;  he  was 
now  engaged  in  grilling  their  eold  meat  by  spearing  each 
sliee  with  the  freshly  pealed  end  of  one  of  the  long  stiff  leaf 
stalks  of  the  saw-palmetto.  These  impromptu  toasting-forks 
of  liis,  four  feet  in  height,  he  had  stuck  in  the  ground  in  an 
even  circle  all  round  the  fire,  their  heads  bending  slightly  to 
wards  the  flame;  when  one  side  of  the  range  of  slices  was 
browned,  he  deftly  turned  each  sliee  with  a  fork,  so  as  to 
give  the  other  side  its  share. 

Torres  had  made  no  attempts  as  regarded  grilling  and 
boiling,  he  and  Rosalie  had  spent  the  time  in  conversation. 
Rosalie  had,  in  fact,  detained  him,  when,  after  bringing  the 
boys  and  baskets  safely  to  her  glade,  he  had  looked  medita 
tively  down  the  road  which  led  to  the  old  tomb.  "What 
do  you  think  of  the  Alhambra?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

The  Alhambra  and  the  Inquisition  were  her  two  Spanish 
topics. 

"I  have  not  thought  of  it,"  Torres  mildly  replied. 

"Well,  the  Inquisition,  then;  what  do  you  think  of  the 
Inquisition?  I  am  sure  you  must  have  studied  the  subject, 
and  1  wish  you  would  give  me  your  real  opinion."  (She 
was  determined  to  keep  him  from  following  Garda.) 

Torres  reflected  a  moment.  "  It  would  take  some  time/' 
he  observed,  with  another  glance  down  the  road. 


EAST  ANGELS.  329 

"The  more  the  better,"  said  Rosalie.  This  sounded  effu 
sive  ;  and  as  she  was  so  loyal  to  Lucian  that  everything  she 
did  was  scrupulously  conformed  to  that  feeling,  from  the 
way  she  wore  her  bonnet  to  the  colors  she  selected  for  her 
gloves,  she  added,  immediately  and  rather  coldly,  "It  is  a 
subject  in  which  I  have  been  interested  for  years." 

Torres  looked  at  her  with  gloom.  He  wished  that  she 
had  not  been  interested  in  it  so  long,  or  else  that  she  could 
be  interested  longer,  carrying  it  over  into  the  future.  The 
present  he  yearned  for;  he  wanted  to  follow  that  road. 

But  Rosalie  sat  there  inflexible  as  Fate;  and  he  was  chiv 
alrous  to  all  women,  the  old  as  well  as  the  young.  lie  no 
ticed  that  she  was  very  strongly  buttoned  into  her  dress. 
And  then  he  gave  her  the  opinion  she  asked  for;  he  was 
still  giving  it  when  the  sketching  party  returned. 

Lucian  was  in  gayest  spirits.  He  seized  the  coffee-pot. 
"No  one  should  be  trusted  to  pour  out.  coffee,"  he  said, 
4'  but  a  genuine  lover  of  the  beverage.  Sec  the  people  pour 
out  who  are  not  real  coffee-drinkers  themselves;  they  pour 
stingily,  reluctantly  ;  they  give  you  cold  coffee,  or  coffee  half 
milk,  or  cups  half  full ;  they  cannot  understand  how  you  can 
wish  for  more.  Coffee  doesn't  agree  with  them  very  well; 
they  find  it,  therefore,  difficult  to  believe — in  fact  they  never 
do  believe  —  that  it  should  really  agree  with  you.  It  may 
have  been  all  talked  over  in  the  family  circle,  and  a  fair  gen 
erosity  on  the  part  of  the  non-loving  pourer  guaranteed ;  but 
I  tell  you  that  in  spite  of  guarantees,  she  wilt  scrimp." 

Mr.  Moore,  a  delicate  pink  flush  on  his  cheeks,  now  came 
up  with  his  grilled  slices,  which  proved  to  be  excellent. 

"  My  cousin,  you  are  a  wonderful  person,"  said  Lucian. 

Mr. Moore  made  a  little  disclaiming  murmur  in  his  throat; 
"  Er-um,  er-um,"  he  said,  waving  his  hand  in  a  deprecatory 
way. 

—But  you  ought  to  have  been  a  Frenchman,"  pursued 
Lucian. 

Mr.  Moore  opened  his  eyes. 

"Because  then  your  goodness  would  have  been  so  resplen 
dent,  my  cousin.  As  it  is,  it  shines  on  an  American  back 
ground,  and  eight-tenths  of  native-born  Americans  are  good 
men." 


330  EAST  ANGELS. 

"Yes,  we  have,  I  think,  a  high  standard  of  morality,"  said 
Mr.  Moore,  with  approbation. 

"And  also  a  high  standard  of  splendor,"  continued  Lu- 
cian  ;  "  we  are,  I  am  sure,  the  most  splendid  nation  in  the 
world.  Some  years  ago,  my  cousin,  a  clergyman  at  the  West 
was  addressing  his  congregation  on  a  bright  Sunday  morn 
ing  ;  he  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking  without  notes,  and  of 
preaching  what  are  called  practical  sermons.  Wishing  to 
give  an  example  of  appropriate  Christian  simplicity,  he  be 
gan  a  sentence  as  follows :  *  For  instance,  my  friends,  none 
of  you  would  think  of  coming  to  the  house  of  the  Lord  in ' 
— here  he  saw  a  glitter  from  diamond  ear-rings  in  several  di 
rections — *  of  coming  to  the  house  of  the  Lord,  I  say,  in  ' — 
here  he  caught  the  gleam  from  a  number  of  breastpins — 'in' 
— here  two  or  three  hands,  from  which  the  gloves  had  been 
removed,  stirring  by  chance,  sent  back  to  him  rays  from  wrists 
as  well  as  fingers — 'in  tiaras  of  diamonds,  my  friends,'  he  con 
cluded  at  last,  desperately.  His  congregation  had  on  there, 
before  his  eyesj  every  other  known  arrangement  of  the  stone." 

Mr.  Moore  smiled  slightly — just  enough  not  to  be  disagree 
able  ;  then  he  turned  the  conversation.  Mr.  Moore  was  strong 
at  that ;  he  thought  it  a  great  moral  engine,  and  had  often 
wondered  (to  Penelope)  that  it  was  not  employed  oftener. 
For  instance,  in  difficult  cases :  if  violent  language  were  be 
ing  used  in  one's  presence — turn  the  conversation  ;  in  family 
quarrels  and  disagreements — the  same ;  in  political  discus 
sions  of  a  heated  nature — surely  there  could  be  no  method 
so  simple  or  so  efficacious. 

It  proved  efficacious  now  in  the  face  of  Lucian's  frivolity. 
"  Our  next  course  will  consist  of  oysters,"  he  remarked. 

"Where  are  they?"  demanded  Lucian,  hungrily. 

"  For  the  present  concealed ;  I  conjectured  that  the  sight 
of  two  fires  might  prove  oppressive.  The  arrangements,  how 
ever,  have  been  well  made ;  they  are  in  progress  behind  that 
far  thicket,  and  the  sons  of  the  squatter  are  in  charge." 

The  sons  of  the  squatter  being  summoned  by  what  Mr. 
Moore  called  "yodeling,"  a  pastoral  cry  which  he  sounded 
forth  unexpectedly  and  wildly  between  his  two  hands,  brought 
the  hot  rocks  to  the  company  by  the  simple  process  of  tum 
bling  them  into  a  piece  of  sackcloth  and  dragging  them  over 


EAST  ANGELS.  331 

the  ground.  They  were  really  rocks,  fragments  broken  off, 
studded  with  small  oysters ;  many  parts  of  the  lagoon  were 
lined  with  these  miniature  peaks.  Mr.  Moore  produced  oys 
ter-knives  ;  and,  with  the  best  conscience  in  the  world,  they 
added  another  to  the  shell-heaps  of  Florida  for  the  labors  of 
future  antiquarians. 

And  then,  presently,  they  embarked.  The  sun  was  sink 
ing;  they  floated  away  from  the  squatter's  camp,  down  the 
winding  creek  between  the  leaning  palmettoes,  across  the  salt- 
marsh,  over  which  the  crows  were  now  flying  in  a  long  line, 
and  out  upon  the  sunset-tinted  lagoon.  The  Emperadora 
was  waiting  for  them ;  it  was  moonlight  when  they  reached 
home. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  next  afternoon  Margaret  was  strolling  in  the  old  gar 
den  of  East  Angels.  The  place  now  belonged  to  Evert  Win- 
throp  ;  but  it  had  not  pleased  him  to  make  many  changes, 
and  the  garden  remained  almost  as  much  of  a  blooming  wil 
derness  as  before.  When  at  home  (and  it  was  seldom  that 
she  was  absent  for  any  length  of  time,  as  she  had  been  the 
previous  day)  Margaret  was  occupied  at  this  hour ;  it  was  the 
hour  when  Mrs.  Rutherford  liked  to  have  "  some  one  "  read 
to  her.  This  "  some  one  "  was  always  Margaret. 

Poor  Aunt  Katrina  had  been  a  close  prisoner  all  summer; 
an  affection  of  the  hip  had  prostrated  her  so  that  she  had  not 
been  able  to  leave  East  Angels,  or  her  bed.  Everything  that 
care  or  money  could  do  for  her  had  been  done,  Winthrop 
having  sent  north  for  "  fairly  ship-loads  of  every  known  lux 
ury,"  Betty  Carew  declared, "  so  that  it  makes  a  real  my  ship 
comes  from  India,  you  know,  loaded  with  everything  won 
derful,  from  brass  beds  down  to  verily  ice-cream!'1''  It  was 
true  that  a  schooner  had  brought  ice ;  and  many  articles  had 
been  sent  down  from  New  York  by  sea.  The  interior  of  the 
old  house  now  showed  its  three  eras  of  occupation,  as  an  old 
Roman  tower  shows  its  antique  travertine  at  the  base,  its 
mediaeval  sides,  and  modern  top.  In  the  lower  rooms  and 
in  the  corridors  there  remained  the  original  Spanish  bare- 


332  EAST  ANGELS. 

ness,  the  cool  open  spaces  empty  of  furniture.  Then  came 
tliu  attempted  prettiriesses  of  Mrs.  Thome,  chiefly  manifested 
in  toilet-tables  made  out  of  wooden  boxes,  covered  with  pa 
per-cambric,  and  ruffled  and  flounced  in  white  muslin,  in  a 
very  large  variety  of  table  mats,  in  pin-cushions,  in  pasteboard 
brackets  adorned  with  woollen  embroidery.  Last  of  all,  in 
congruously  placed  here  and  there,  came  the  handsome  mod 
ern  furniture  which  had  been  ordered  from  the  North  by 
Winthrop  when  Dr.  Kirby  finally  said  that  Mrs.  Rutherford 
would  not  be  able  to  leave  East  Angels  for  many  a  month 
to  come. 

The  thick  walls  of  the  old  house,  the  sea-breeze,  the  spa 
ciousness  of  her  shaded  room,  together  with  her  own  re 
duced  condition,  had  prevented  the  invalid  from  feeling  the 
heat.  Margaret  and  Winthrop,  who  had  not  left  her,  had 
learned  to  lead  the  life  which  the  residents  led  ;  they  went 
out  in  the  early  morning,  and  again  at  nightfall,  but  through 
the  sunny  hours  they  kept  within-doors ;  during  the  middle 
of  the  day  indeed  no  one  stirred ;  even  the  negroes  slept. 

The  trouble  with  the  hip  had  declared  itself  on  the  very  day 
Winthrop  had  announced  his  engagement  to  the  group  of 
waiting  friends  at  the  lower  door.  The  news,  therefore,  had 
not  been  repeated  in  the  sick-room ;  Mrs.  Rutherford  did  not 
know  it  even  now.  Her  convalescence  was  but  just  begin 
ning;  throughout  the  summer,  and  more  than  ever  at  pres 
ent,  Dr.  Kirby  told  them,  the  hope  of  permanent  recovery 
for  her  lay  in  the  degree  of  tranquillity,  mental  as  well  as 
physical,  in  which  they  should  be  able  to  maintain  her,  day 
by  day.  Winthrop  and  Margaret  knew  that  tranquillity 
would  be  at  an  end  if  she  should  learn  what  had  happened; 
they  therefore  took  care  that  she  should  not  learn.  There 
was,  indeed,  no  occasion  for  hurry,  there  was  to  be  no  talk 
of  marriage  until  Garda  should  be  at  least  eighteen.  In  the 
mean  time  Aunt  Katrina  lived,  in  one  way,  in  the  most  com 
plete  luxury;  she  had  now  but  little  pain,  and  endless  was 
the  skill,  endless  the  patience,  with  which  the  six  persons 
who  were  devoted  to  her — Margaret,  Winthrop,  Dr.  Kirby, 
Betty  Carew,  Celestine,  and  Looth — labored  to  maintain  her 
serenity  unbroken,  to  vary  her  few  pleasures.  Betty,  it  is 
true,  had  to  stop  outside  the  door  each  time,  and  press  back 


EAST  ANGELS.  333 

almost  literally,  with  her  hand  over  her  month,  the  danger 
of  betraying  the  happiness  of  "dear  Evert"  and  "darling 
Garda"  through  her  own  inadvertence;  but  her  genuine  af 
fection  for  Katrina  accomplished  the  miracle  of  making  her 
for  the  time  being  almost  advertent,  though  there  was  sure 
to  be  a  vast  verbal  expansion  afterwards,  when  she  had  left 
the  room,  which  was  not  unlike  the  physical  one  that  ensued 
when  she  released  herself,  after  paying  a  visit,  from  her  own 
tightly  fitting  best  gown. 

To-day  Aunt  Katrina  had  felt  suddenly  tired,  and  the 
reading  had  been  postponed  ;  Margaret  had  come  out  to  the 
garden.  She  strolled  down  a  path  which  had  recently  been  re 
opened  to  the  garden's  northern  end;  here  there  was  a  high 
hedge,  before  which  she  paused  for  a  moment  to  look  at  a 
sensitive-plant  which  was  growing  against  the  green.  Sud 
denly  she  became  conscious  that  she  heard  the  sound  of  low 
voices  outside ;  then  followed  a  laugh  which  she  was  sure 
she  knew  well.  She  stepped  across-the  boundary  ditch,  full 
of  bloom,  and  looked  through  the  foliage.  Beyond  was  an 
old  field;  then  another  high  hedge.  In  the  field,  a  little  to 
the  right,  there  was  a  thicket,  and  here,  protectec?  by  its  cres 
cent-shaped  bend,  which  enclosed  them  both  in  its  half-circle, 
were  Garda  and  Lucian;  Lucian  was  sketching  his  companion. 

Only  the  sound  of  their  voices  reached  Margaret,  not  their 
words.  She  looked  at  them  for  a  moment ;  then  she  stepped 
back  over  the  ditch,  passed  through  the  garden,  and  returned 
to  the  house,  where  she  seated  horself  on  a  stone  bench  which 
stood  near  the  lower  door.  Here  she  waited,  she  waited 
nearly  an  hour ;  then  Garda  appeared,  alone. 

Margaret  rose,  went  to  meet  her,  and  putting  her  arm  in 
hers,  turned  her  towards  the  orange  walk.  "  Come  and  stroll 
a  while,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  tired,  Margaret ;  I  wish  you  didn't  have  so  much 
care,"  said  Garda,  affectionately,  as  she  looked  at  her.  "  Mrs. 
Rutherford  isn't  worse,  I  hope  ?" 

"  No  ;  she  is  sleeping,"  Margaret  answered.  After  a  pause  : 
"  You  heard  from  Evert  this  morning,  I  believe  ?" 

"Yes;  didn't  I  show  you  the  letter?  I  meant  to.  I 
think  it's  in  my  pocket  now,"  and  searching,  she  produced 
a  crumpled  missive. 


334  EAST  ANGELS. 

Margaret  took  it.  Mechanically  her  fingers  smoothed  out 
its  creases,  but  she  did  not  open  it.  "  You  have  been  out 
for  a  walk  ?"  she  said  at  last,  with  something  of  an  effort. 

But  Garda  did  not  notice  the  effort ;  she  was  enjoying  her 
own  life  very  fully  that  afternoon.  "  No,"  she  answered. 
Then  she  laughed.  "  You  could  not  possibly  guess  where  I 
have  been." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  couldn't  make  the  effort  to-day." 

"  And  you  shall  not — I'll  tell  you  ;  I've  been  in  the  green 
studio.  Fortunately  you  haven't  the  least  idea  where  that  is." 

"  Have  you  taken  to  painting,  then  ?" 

"  No  ;  painting  has  taken  to  me.     Lucian  has  been  here." 

"  When  did  he  come  ?" 

"About  two  hours  ago,  I  should  say.  You  didn't  see  him 
because  he  did  not  come  to  the  house ;  I  met  him  in — in 
the  green  studio,  of  course  ;  I  gave  him  another  sitting." 

"  Then  you  expected  him  ?"  said  Margaret,  looking  at  her. 

"Yes;  we  made  the  arrangement  in  the  only  instant  you 
gave  us  yesterday — when  you  went  to  hang  your  wreath  on 
that  old  tomb;"  " 

"Why  was*  it  necessary  to  be  so  secret  about  it?  Am  I 
such  an  ogre?" 

"No;  you're  a  fairy  godmother.  But  you  would  have 
objected  to  it,  and  spoiled  it  all  beforehand ;  you  know  you 
would,"  said  Garda,  with  gay  accusation. 

Margaret's  eyes  were  following  the  little  inequalities  .of  the 
ground  before  them  as  they  advanced. 

"Perhaps  you  could  have  brought  me  round,"  she  an 
swered.  "  At  any  rate,  you  must  admit  me  to  the  next  sit 
ting." 

"No,  that  I  cannot  do,  Margaret;  so  don't  ask  me.  I 
love  to  be  with  you,  and  I  love  to  be  with  Lucian.  But  I 
don't  love  to  be  with  you  two  together — you  watch  him  so." 

»  I— watch  Mr.  Spenser  ?     Oh  no  !" 

"  Well,  then — and  it's  the  same  thing — you  watch  me." 

"  Is  that  the  word  to  use,  Garda  ?  You  are  under  my 
charge — I  have  hoped  that  it  was  not  disagreeable  to  you ;  I 
have  tried — " 

Garda  stopped  and  kissed  her.  "  It  isn't  disagreeable ;  it's 
beautiful,"  she  said,  with  impulsive  warmth.  "But  there's 


EAST  ANGELS.  335 

no  use  in  your  trying  to  keep  me  from  seeing  Lucian,"  she 
added,  as  they  walked  on ;  "I  can't  imagine  bow  you  should 
even  think  of  it,  when  you  know  so  well  how  much  I  have 
always  liked  him.  Oh,  what  a  comfort  it  is  just  to  see  him 
here  again !" 

"You  must  remember  that  he  has  other  things  to  think 
of  now." 

"  Only  his  wife ;  he  needn't  take  long  to  think  of  her." 

"  He  took  long  enough  to  leave  Gracias  last  winter  and  go 
north  and  marry  her." 

"Yes;  and  wasn't  it  good  of  him?  I  couldn't  bear  to 
have  him  go  at  the  time ;  but  I've  forgotten  all  about  that, 
now  that  he's  back  again." 

"  But  not  alone  this  time." 

"  Lucian's  always  alone  for  me,"  responded  Garda.  "  But 
why  do  you  keep  talking  about  Mrs.  Rosalie,  Margaret? 
Isn't  it  enough  that  we  have  to  talk  to  her?  She  isn't  an 
object  of  pity  in  the  least ;  she's  got  everything  she  wants, 
and  six  times  more  than  she  deserves ;  I  detest  people  who, 
when  they're  cross,  are  all  upper  lip." 

A  vision  of  Rosalie's  face  rose  in  Margaret's  mind.  But 
she  did  not  at  present  discuss  its  outlines  with  Garda,  she 
simply  said,  "  I  must  come  to  the  next  sitting.  And  don't 
choose  for  it  the  exact  hour  when  I'm  reading  to  Aunt 
Katrina." 

"  I  chose  that  hour  on  purpose,  so  that  you  shouldn't 
know." 

"Yes,  because  you  thought  I  should  object.  But  if  I 
don't  object—" 

"You  do,"  said  Garda,  laughing;  "you're  only  pretending 
you  don't.  Very  well,  then.  Only — you  mustn't  keep  stop 
ping  me." 

"  Stopping  you  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  stopping,  stopping  —  I  mean  just  that;  there's  no 
other  word.  I  want  to  look  at  Lucian  and  talk  to  him  ex 
actly  as  I  please." 

"I'm  not  aware  that  I've  blinded  or  gagged  you,"  said 
Margaret,  smiling. 

"  No,  but  you  have  a  way  of  saying  something  that  makes 
a  change ;  you  make  him  cither  get  up,  or  turn  his  head 


336  EAST  ANGELS. 

away,  or  else  you  stop  what  he's  saying.  You  see,  he  fol 
lows  your  lead." 

"Though  you  do  not." 

"He  does  it  from  politeness — politeness  to  you,"  Gardu 
went  on. 

"  Yes,  he  has  very  good  manners,"  said  Margaret,  dryly. 

"Haven't  I  good  manners  too?"  demanded  the  girl,  in  a 
caressing  tone,  crossing  her  hands  upon  her  friend's  arm. 

"Very  bad  ones,  sometimes.  Now,  Garda,  don't  yon 
really  think—" 

"  I  never  really  think,  I  never  even  think  without  the  re 
ally.  What  is  the  use  of  getting  all  white  with  thinking? — 
you  can't  set  anything  straight  by  it.  You  are  sometimes 
so  white  that  you  frighten  me." 

"Never  mind  my  whiteness;  I  never  have  any  color,"  said 
Margaret,  a  nervous  impatience  showing  itself  suddenly. 
Then  she  controlled  herself.  "  Are  you  thinking  of  having 
another  sitting  to-morrow  ?" 

"Perhaps;  it  isn't  quite  certain  yet.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  know  that  Lucian  is  trying  to  persuade  Madam 
Giron  to  take  him  in  for  a  while?" 

"  To  take  him  in  ?" 

"  Them-m-m,"  said  Garda,  "  since  you  insist  upon  it." 

"  I  can't  imagine  Madame  Giron  "consenting,"  said  Mar 
garet.  She  was  much  surprised  by  this  intelligence. 

"  She  wouldn't  unless  it  were  to  please  Adolfo ;  if  he 
should  urge  her  to  do  it.  And  I  think  he  will  urge  her,  be 
cause — because  he  and  Mrs.  Spenser  are  such  great  friends." 

"  They're  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  she  only  talks  to  him  because  her  husband  likes  him." 

"Well,  then,  Adolfo  will  urge  because  I  told  him  to." 

"  You  told  him  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Garda,  serenely  ;  "  I  told  him  we  could  make 
so  many  more  excursions  if  they  were  staying  down  here. 
And  so  we  can,  I  hope — Lucian  and  I,  at  any  rate ;  we're 
light  on  our  feet." 

"  If  Madam  Giron  should  consent,  when  would  the  Spon 
sors  come  down  ?"  said  Margaret,  pursuing  her  investigations. 

"To-morrow  at  twelve,"  Garda  answered,  promptly. 

"  Mrs.  Spenser  knew  nothing  of  it  yesterday." 


EAST  ANGELS.  337 

"Oli  yes,  she  did;  a  little." 

"She  didn't  speak  of  it." 

"  She  didn't  speak  of  it  because  she's  not  pleased  with  the 
idea.  At  least  not  much." 

"  Then  it's  Mr.  Spenser  who  is  pleased  ?" 

"  Yes ;  still,  I  am  the  most  pleased  of  all ;  I  suggested  it 
to  him,  he  would  never  have  thought  of  it  himself.  You  see, 
he  was  losing  so  much  time  in  coming  and  going.  If  he 
were  at  Madam  Giron's,  too,  I  could  hope  to  see  him  some 
times  in  the  evening;  for  instance,  to-morrow  evening." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  is  coming  to  see  us  then  ?" 

"  He  is  coming  to  see  me ;  that  is,  if  they  are  down  there. 
I  shall  not  let  him  see  any  of  the  rest  of  you.  It  isn't  a  sit 
ting,  you  know,  we  don't  have  sittings  by  moonlight;  I  shall 
send  him  word  where  to  come,  and  then  I  shall  slip  out  and 
find  him." 

Margaret  stopped.  "  Garda,"  she  said,  in  a  changed  tone, 
"  you  told  me  yesterday  that  I  had  been  very  kind  to  you — " 

"  So  you  have  been." 

"  Then  I  hope  you  won't  think  me  unkind — I  hope  you 
will  yield  to  my  judgment — when  I  tell  you  that  you  must 
not  send  any  such  message  to  Mr.  Spenser." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  you  would  try  to  stop  it  ?"  said  Garda, 
gleefully. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  try.    And  I  think  you  will  do  as  I  wish." 

Garda  did  not  answer,  she  only  looked  at  her  friend  with 
a  vague  little  smile.  She  seemed  not  to  be  giving  her  full 
attention  to  what  she  was  saying ;  and  at  the  same  moment, 
singularly  enough,  she  seemed  to  be  admiring  her,  taking  that 
time  for  it — admiring  the  delicate  moulding  of  her  features, 
her  oval  cheeks,  which  had  now  a  bright  flush  of  color.  The 
expression  of  her  own  face,  meanwhile,  remained  as  soft  as 
ever,  there  was  not  a  trace  of  either  opposition  or  annoyance. 

"Isn't  there  some  one  else,  too,  who  would  not  like  to 
have  you  do  such — such  foolish  things  2"  Margaret  went  on. 
"  Shouldn't  you  think  a  little  of  Evert  ?" 

"  Evert's  too  far  off  to  think  of.  He's  a  thousand  miles 
away." 

"  What  difference  does  that  make  ?" 

"  You're  right,  it  doesn't  make  any,"  said  Garda.    "  I  should 
22 


338  EAST  ANGELS. 

do  just  the  same,  I  presume,  if  lie  were  here."     She  spoke  in 
a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

Margaret  looked  at  her,  and  seemed  hardly  to  know  what 
to  say  next. 

In  the  position  in  which  they  were  standing,  Garda  was 
facing  the  entrance  of  the  orange  walk.  Her  eyes  now  be 
gan  to  gleam.  "  Isn't  this  funny  ?"  she  said.  "  Here  he  is 
himself !" 

^  Margaret  turned,  expecting  to  sec  Lucian.     But  it  was 
Evert  Winthrop  who  was  coming  towards  them. 

"You  didn't  expect  me?"- he  "said  as  he  took  their  hands, 
Garda's  in  his  right  hand,  Margaret's  in  his  left,  and  held 
them  for  a  moment.  "  But  I  told  you  in  the  postscript  of 
my  last  letter,  Garda,  that  I  might  perhaps  follow  it  imme 
diately." 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  get  to  the  postscript  yet,"  Garda 
answered.  "The  letter  only  came  this  morning;  and  Mar 
garet  has  it  now." 

"  You  know  I  haven't  opened  it,  Garda,"  said  Margaret, 
hastily  returning  it. 

"  No ;  but  I  meant  you  to,"  said  the  girl.  Something  in 
this  little  scene  seemed  to  strike  her  as  comical,  for  she  cov 
ered  her  face  with  both  hands  and  began  to  laugh.  "  What 
a  bad  account  you  will  give  of  me !"  she  said. 

"  You  will  have  to  give  it  yourself,"  replied  Margaret.  "  I 
must  go ;  Aunt  Katrina  must  be  awake  by  this  time." 

"  Isn't  she  well  ?"  said  Winthrop,  looking  after  her  as  she 
left  them. 

"She  had  color  enough  before  you  came,"  said  Garda, 
smiling,  then  laughing  at  recollections  he  could  not  share. 
"  Have  you  come  back  as  blind  as  you  went  away  ?" 

"How  blind  is  that?" 

"Blind  to  all  my  faults,"  she  responded,  swinging  her  hat 
by  its  ribbons. 

"  Don't  spoil  your  hat.  No,  I'm  not  blind  to  them,  but 
we're  going  to  cure  them,  you  know." 

"  I'm  so  glad  !" 

He  had  taken  a  case  from  his  pocket,  and  was  now  open 
ing  it;  it  held  a  delicate  gold  bracelet,  exquisitely  fashioned, 
which  he  clasped  round  her  arm. 


EAST  ANGELS.  339 

"  How  pretty !"  said  Garda.  Her  pleasure  was  genuine, 
she  turned  her  hand  so  that  she  could  see  the  ornament  in 
every  position. 

"You  prefer  diamonds,  I  know,"  said  Winthrop,  smiling. 
"  But  you're  not  old  enough  to  wear  diamonds  yet." 

She  continued  to  look  at  her  bracelet  until  she  had  satis 
fied  herself  fully.  Then  she  let  her  hand  drop.  "  Will  you 
give  me  some  very  beautiful  diamonds  by-and-by  3"  she  asked, 
turning  her  eyes  towards  him. 

"To  be  quite  frank,  I  don't  like  them  much." 

"  But  if  /  like  them  ?"  She  seemed  to  be  curious  as  to 
what  he  would  reply. 

"You  may  not  like  them  yourself,  then." 

She  regarded  him  a  moment  longer.  Then  her  eyes  left 
him  ;  she'looked  off  down  the  long  aisle.  "  I  shall  not  change ; 
no,  not  as  you  seem  to  think,"  she  said,  musingly.  And  she 
stood  there  for  a  moment  very  still.  Then  her  face  changed, 
her  light-heartedness  came  back;  she  took  his  arm,  and,  as 
they  strolled  slowly  towards  the  house,  talked  her  gayest  non 
sense.  He  listened  indulgently. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  what  I  have  been  doing  all 
these  weeks  while  you  have  been  away?"  she  said  at  last, 
suddenly. 

"  I  suppose  I  know,  don't  I  ?     You  have  written." 

"  You  haven't  the  least  idea.  I  have  been  amused — really 
amused  all  the  time." 

"  Is  that  such  a  novelty  ?  I've  always  thought  you  had  a 
capital  talent  for  amusing  yourself." 

"That's  just  what  I  mean;  this  time  I've  been  amused,  I 
didn't  have  to  do  it  myself.  Oh,  promise  me  you  won't  stop 
anything  now  you've  come.  We've  had  some  lovely  excur 
sions,  and  I  want  ever  so  many  more." 

"When  did  I  ever  stop  an  excursion  in  Florida?"  said 
Winthrop. 

"  Yes,  you've  been  very  good,  very  good  always,"  answered 
Garda,  with  conviction.  "But  this  time  you  must  be  even 
better,  you  must  let  me  do  exactly  as  I  please." 

"Oh,  I  don't  pretend  to  keep  you  in  order,  you  know;  I 
leave  that  to  Margaret." 

"  Poor  Margaret !"  said  Garda,  laughing. 


340  EAST  ANGELS. 

The  next  day  Lucian  and  his  wife  came  down  to  the  Giron 
plantation ;  Madam  Giron  had  consented  to  take  them  in. 

Three  nights  afterwards,  Margaret,  awake  between  midnight 
and  one  o'clock,  thought  she  heard  Garda's  door  open  ;  then, 
light  steps  in  the  ball.  She  left  her  bed,  and  opening  the 
door  between  their  two  rooms,  went  through  into  Garda's 
chamber.  It  was  empty,  the  moonlight  shone  across  the 
floor.  She  returned  to  her  own  room,  hastily  threw  on  a 
white  dressing-gown,  twisted  up  her  long  soft  hair,  and  put 
on  a  pair  of  low  shoes ;  then  she  stole  out  quietly,  went  down 
the  stone  staircase  and  through  the  lower  hall,  and  found,  as 
she  expected,  the  outer  door  unfastened ;  she  opened  it,  closed 
it  softly  after  her,  and  stood  alone  in  the  night.  She  had  to 
make  a  choice,  and  she  had  only  the  faintest  indication  to 
guide  her — a  possible  clew  in  a  remembered  conversation  ; 
she  followed  this  clew  and  turned  towards  the  live-oak  avenue. 
Her  step  was  hurried,  she  almost  ran ;  as  she  drew  the  float 
ing  lace-trimmed  robe  more  closely  about  her,  the  moonlight 
shone,  beneath  its  upheld  folds,  on  her  little  white  feet.  She 
had  never  before  been  out  alone  under  the  open  sky  at  that 
hour,  she  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  and  shivered  slightl}T, 
though  the  night  was  as  warm  as  July.  Her  own  shadow, 
keeping  up  with  her,  was  like  a  living  thing.  The  moonlight 
on  the  ground  was  so  white  that  by  contrast  all  the  trees 
looked  black. 

The  live-oak  avenue,  when  she  entered  it,  seemed  a  shelter; 
at  least  it  was  a  roof  over  her  head,  shutting  out  the  sky. 
The  moonlight  only  came  at  intervals  through  the  thick  fo 
liage,  making  silver  checker-work  on  the  path. 

There  were  two  or  three  bends,  then  a  long  straight  stretch. 
As  she  came  into  this  straight  stretch  she  saw  at  the  far  end, 
going  towards  the  lagoon,  a  figure — Garda;  behind  Garda, 
doubly  grotesque  in  the  changing  shade  and  light,  stepped 
the  crane. 

Margaret's  foot-falls  made  no  sound  on  the  soft  sand  of  the 
path ;  she  hurried  onward,  and  passing  the  crane,  laid  her 
hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  "Garda,"  she  said. 

Garda  stopped,  surprised.  But  though  surprised,  she  was 
not  startled,  she  was  as  calm  as  though  she  had  been  found 


EAST  ANGELS.  341 

walking  there  at  noonday.     She  was  fully  dressed,  and  car 
ried  a  light  shawl. 

"  Margaret,  is  it  you  ?  How  in  the  world  did  you  know  I 
was  here  ?" 

Margaret  let  her  head  rest  for  a  moment  on  Garda's  shoul 
der  ;  her  heart  was  beating  with  suffocating  rapidity.  She 
recovered  herself,  stood  erect,  and  looked  at  her  companion. 
"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  try  and  find  Lucian  ;  but  it  may  be  only 
trying.  He  was  to  start  from  the  Giron  landing  at  one, 
when  the  tide  would  serve,  he  said;  but  you  heard  him,  so 
you  know  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  No.     For  I  don't  know  what  you're  going  to  do." 

"Why,  I've  told  you;  I'm  going  to  try  to  go  with  him, 
if  I  can.  I'm  going  to  stand  out  at  the  edge  of  the  plat 
form,  and  then,\vhen  he  comes  by,  perhaps  he  will  sec  me 
— it's  so  light — and  take  me  in.  I  want  to  sail  through 
that  thick  soft  fog  he  told  us  about  (when  it  comes  up 
later),  with  the  moonlight  making  it  all  queer  and  white, 
and  the  gulls  fast  asleep  and  floating  —  don't  you  remem 
ber  ?" 

"Then  he  doesn't  expect  you?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Garda;  "it's  my  own  idea.  I  knew  he 
would  be  alone,  because  Mrs.  Rosalie  can't  go  out  in  fogs, 
she's  afraid  of  rheumatism." 

"And  you  see  nothing  out  of  the  way  in  all  this?" 

"  No." 

" — Stealing  out  secretly — " 

"Only  because  you  would  have  stopped  it  if  you  had 
known." 

" — At  night,  and  by  yourself?" 

"The  night's  as  good  as  the  day  when  there's  moonlight 
like  this.  °And  I  shall  not  be  by  myself,  I  shall  be  with 
Lucian ;  I'd  rather  be  with  him  than  anybody." 

"  And  Evert  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Garda,  "the  truth  is— the  truth  is  I'm  tired 
of  Evert." 

"You'd  better  tell  him  that,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  quick 
and  curious  change  in  her  voice. 

"I  will,  if  you  think  best." 


342  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  No,  don't  tell  him;  you're  not  in  earnest,"  said  Mar 
garet,  calming  himself. 

"Yes,  I  am  in  earnest.  But  I  shall  miss  Lucian  if  I  stay 
here  longer." 

"  Garda,  give  this  up." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  happened  to  hear  me  come  out," 
said  the  girl,  laughing  and  vexed. 

"Have  you  been  out  in  this  way  before?" 

"  No ;  how  could  I  ?  Lucian  has  only  just  come  down 
here.  I  should  a  great  deal  rather  tell  you  everything,  Mar 
garet,  as  fast  as  I  think  of  it,  and  I  would — only  you  would 
be  sure  to  stop  it." 

"  I  want  to  stop  this.  Give  it  up — if  you  care  at  all  for 
me ;  I  make  it  a  test." 

"  You  know  I  care  ;  if  you  put  it  on  that  ground,  of  course 
I  shall  have  to  give  it  up,"  said  Garda,  disconsolately. 

"Come  back  to  the  house,  then,"  said  Margaret,  taking 
her  hand. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  back,  I'm  going  down  to  the  land 
ing,"  answered  the  girl.  She  appeared  to  think  that  she  had 
earned  this  obstinacy  by  her  larger  concession. 

"  But  you  said  you  would  give  up — " 

"If  we  keep  back  under  the  trees  he  cannot  see  us;  I 
mean  what  I  say — he  shall  not.  But  I  want  to  see  him,  I 
want  to  see  him  go  by." 

She  drew  Margaret  onward,  and  presently  they  reached 
the  shore.  "  There  he  comes  !"  she  said — "  1  hear  the  oars." 
And  she  held  tightly  to  Margaret's  hand,  as  if  to  keep  her 
self  from  running  out  to  the  platform's  edge. 

The  broad  lagoon,  rippling  in  the  moonlight,  lay  before 
them ;  the  night  was  so  still  that  they  heard  the  dip  of  the 
oars  long  before  they  saw  the  boat  itself ;  Patricio,  opposite, 
looked  like  a  country  in  a  dream.  The  giant  limbs  of  the 
live-oak  under  which  they  stood  rose  high  in  the  air  above 
them,  and  then  drooped  down  again  far  forward,  the  dark 
shade  beneath  concealing  them  perfectly,  in  spite  of  Mar 
garet's  white  robe.  Now  the  boat  shot  into  sight.  Its  sail 
was  up,  white  as  silver,  but  as  there  was  no  wind,  Lucian 
was  rowing.  It  was  a  small,  light  boat,  almost  too  small  for 
the  great  silver  sail ;  but  that  was  what  Lucian  liked.  He 


EAST  ANGELS.  343 

kept  on  his  course  far  out  in  the  stream  ;  he  was  bound  for 
the  mouth  of  the  harbor. 

Garda  gave  a  long  sigh.  "  I  ought  to  be  there  !"  she  mur 
mured.  "  Oh,  I  ought  to  be  there !"  She  stood  motionless, 
watching  the  boat  come  nearer,  pass,  and  disappear ;  then 
she  turned  and  looked  at  Margaret  in  silence. 

"  We  can  go  out  to-morrow  evening,  if  you  like,"  said 
Margaret,  ignoring  the  expression  of  her  face. 

"Yes,  at  eight  o'clock,  I  suppose,  with  Evert,  and  Mrs. 
Rosalie!" 

"  Would  you  prefer  to  go  in  the  middle  of  the  night  ?" 

"  Infinitely.     And  with  Lucian  alone." 

"  I  should  think  that  might  be  a  little  tiresome." 

"  Oh,  come,  don't  pretend ;  you  don't  know  how,"  said 
Garda,  laughing.  "At  heart  you're  as  serious  as  death 
about  all  this— you  know  you  are.  Tiresome,  did  you  say  ? 
Just  looking  at  him,  to  begin  with — do  you  call  that  tire 
some  ?  And  then  the  way  he  talks,  the  way  he  says  things ! 
Oh,  Margaret,  I  give  you  my  word  I  adore  being  amused  as 
Lucian  amuses  me."  She  turned  as  she  said  this  and  met 
Margaret's  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  "  You  can't  understand  it," 
she  commented.  "  You  can't  understand  that  I  prefer  Lucian 
to  Evert." 

Margaret  turned  from  her.  But  the  next  instant  she  came 
back.  "There  are  some  things  I  must  ask  you,  Garda." 

"  Well,  do  stay  here  a  little  longer  then,  it's  so  lovely ; 
we'll  sit  down  on  the  bench.  But  perhaps  you'll  be  chilled 
— you're  so  lightly  dressed.  What  have  you  on  your  feet? 
Oh  Margaret !  only  those  thin  shoes — no  more  than  slippers?" 
She  took  her  shawl,  and  kneeling  down,  wrapped  it  round 
Margaret's  ankles.  "  What  little  feet  you  have !"  she  said, 
admiringly.  "  It  reminds  me  of  my  wet  shoes  that  night 
on  the  barren,"  she  added,  rising ;  and  then,  standing  there 
with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  she  appeared  to  be  medi 
tating.  "  Now  that  time  I  was  in  earnest  too !"  she  said, 
with  a  sort  of  wonder  at  herself. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Margaret. 

"  Oh,  nothing  of  consequence.     Are  you  sure  you're  not 

cold  r 

"  I'm  quite  warm  ;  it's  like  summer." 


344  EAST  ANGELS. 

"Yes,  it's  warm,"  said  Garda,  sitting  down  beside  her. 
"  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  in  that  boat !"  And  she  put  her  head 
down  on  Margaret's  shoulder. 

After  a  moment  Margaret  began  her  interrogatory.  "  You 
consider  yourself  engaged  to  Evert,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  after  a  fashion.     He  doesn't  care  about  it." 

"  Yes,  he  does.     You  don't  comprehend  him." 

"  Don't  you  think  he  ought  to  make  me  comprehend,  then  ? 
It  seems  to  me  that  that's  his  part.  But  no,  the  real  trouble 
is  that  he  doesn't  in  the  least  comprehend  me.  He  has  got 
some  idea  of  his  own  about  me,  he  has  had  it  all  this  time. 
But  I'm  not  like  his  idea  at  all ;  I  wonder  how  long  it  will 
be  before  he  will  find  it  out?" 

"  Don't  you  care  for  him,  Garda  ?" 

"No,  not  any  more.  I  did  once;  at  least  that  night  on 
the  barren  I  thought  I  did.  But  if  I  did,  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know  what  has  become  of  the  feeling !  At  any  rate  it  has 
gone,  gone  entirely ;  I  only  care  for  Lucian  now." 

"  And  would  you  give  up  Evert,  engaged  to  him  as  you 
are,  with  your  own  consent  and  the  consent  of  all  your  friends, 
for  a  mere  fancy  like  this  ?" 

"Mere  fancy?  I  shall  begin  to  think,  Margaret,  that  you 
don't  know  what  '  mere  fancies,'  as  you  call  them,  are !" 

"  And  what  view  do  you  take  of  the  fact  that  Lucian  is  a 
married  man  ?"  Margaret  went  on,  gravely. 

"  A  horribly  melancholy  one,  of  course.  Still,  it's  a  great 
pleasure  just  to  see  him  ;  I  try  to  see  him  as  often  as  I  can." 

"And  you're  willing  to  follow  him  about  as  you  do — let 
him  see  how  much  you  like  him,  when,  in  reality,  he  doesn't 
care  in  the  least  for  you  ?  If  he  had  cared  he  would  never 
have  left  you,  as  he  did  last  winter,  at  a  moment's  notice 
and  without  a  word." 

"No,  I  know  he  doesn't  care  for  me  as  I  care  for  him," 
said  Garda.  "  But  perhaps  he  will  care  more  in  time  ;  I  have 
thought  that  perhaps  he  would  care  more  when  he  found  out 
how  I  felt  towards  him  ;  that  is  what  I  have  been  hoping." 

Margaret  got  up,  she  made  a  motion  with  her  hands  al 
most  as  if  she  were  casting  the  girl  off.  "  Garda,"  she  said, 
"  you  frighten  me.  I  have  tried  to  speak  with  the  greatest 
moderation,  because  I  have  not  thought  you  realized  at  all 


EAST  ANGELS.  345 

what  you  were  saying;  but  you  are  so  calm,  you  speak  in 
such  a  tone  ! — I  cannot  understand  it." 

"  Well,  Margaret,  I've  never  tried  to  understand  it  myself. 
Why,  then,  should  you  try?"  said  Garda,  in  her  indolent 
way. 

Then,  as  she  looked  at  Margaret,  she  became  conscious  of 
the  marked  change  in  her  face,  and  it  seemed  to  startle  her. 
She  rose  and  came  to  her.  "  One  thing  I  know,"  she  said, 
quickly,  "  if  you  are  vexed  with  me,  so  vexed  that  you  will 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me,  I  don't  know  what  will 
become  of  me.  You  are  the  only  woman  I  care  for.  Don't 
throw  me  over,  Margaret.  There's  one  thing  that  may  hap 
pen,"  she  added,  looking  at  her  friend  with  luminous  gaze,"  I 
may  stop  caring  for  Lucian  of  my  own  accord  before  long ; 
you  know  I  stopped  caring  for  Evert." 

"Oh,  Garda!  Garda!"  murmured  Margaret,  putting  her 
hand  over  her  eyes. 

"You  are  shocked  because  I  tell  you  the  exact  truth.  I 
believe  you  would  like  it  better  if  I  should  dress  it  up,  and 
pretend  to  have  all  sorts  of  reasons.  But  I  never  have  rea 
sons,  I  only  know  how  I  feel ;  and  you  can't  make  me  be 
lieve,  either,  that  it  isn't  better  to  be  true  about  your  feelings 
whatever  they  are,  than  to  tell  lies  just  to  make  people  think 
well  of  you." 

"Garda,  promise  me  not  to  see  Lucian  in  this  way  again  ; 
that  is,  not  to  plan  to  sec  him,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  kind  of 
desperation  in  her  tone. 

"  Why,  how  can  you  suppose  I  would  ever  promise  that?" 
asked  Garda,  astonished. 

"Very  well.  Then  I  shall  speak  to  him  myself."  And 
as  she  stood  there,  her  tall  slender  figure  outlined  in  white, 
her  dark  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl,  Margaret  Harold  looked 
almost  menacing. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  would  do  that,"  answered  Garda ; 
"  because  as  he  doesn't  care  for  me,  it  would  be  like  throw 
ing  me  at  his  head;  and  that  you  wouldn't  like  because  you 
have  a  pride  about  it — for  Evert's  sake,  I  mean.  Why  don't 
you  tell  Evert  instead  of  Lucian  ?  I've  thought  of  telling 
Evert  myself.  The  idea  of  his  needing  to  be  told!" 

"  It's  because  he  has  such  a  perfect  belief  in  yon,"  began 


346  EAST  ANGELS. 

Margaret.  "  He  would  never  dream  that  you  could — "  She 
stopped,  her  lips  had  begun  to  tremble  a  little. 

But  Garda  was  not  paying  heed  to  what  Margaret  was  say 
ing.  "No,  you'll  never  speak  to  Lucian,"  she  repeated,  "I 
know  you  never  will ;  you  couldn't." 

"  You're  right,  I  couldn't.  And  the  reason  would  be  be 
cause  I  should  be  ashamed — ashamed  for  you." 

But  Garda  was  not  moved  by  this.  "  I  don't  see  why  we 
should  be  ashamed  of  our  real  feelings,"  she  said  again,  with 
a  sort  of  sweet  stolidity. 

"  We  go  through  life,  Garda,  more  than  half  of  us — wom 
en,  I  mean — obliged  always  to  conceal  our  real  feelings." 

"Then  that  I  never  will  do,"  said  Garda,  warmly.  "And 
you  shall  see  whether  I  come  out  any  the  worse  for  it  in  the 
end." 

"You  intend  to  do  what  you  please,  no  matter  who  suffers?" 

"They  needn't  suffer,  it's  silly  to  suffer.  They'd  better 
go  and  do  what  they  please." 

"And  you  think  that  right?  You  see  nothing  wrong 
in  it?" 

"  Oh,  right,  wrong — I  think  it's  right  to  be  happy,  as  right 
as  possibly  can  be;  and  wrong  to  be  unhappy,  as  wrong  as 
possibly  can  be ;  I  think  unhappy  people  do  a  great  deal  of 
harm  in  the  world,  besides  being  so  very  tiresome !  I  was  a 
goose  to  be  as  unhappy  as  I  was  last  winter;  I  might  have 
known  that  I  should  either  get  over  caring  for  him,  or  else 
that  I  should  see  him  again.  In  this  case  both  happened." 

After  this  declaration  of  principles  the  girl  walked  down 
the  slope  and  out  to  the  edge  of  the  platform,  where  she  stood 
in  the  moonlight  looking  northward  up  the  lagoon. 

"I  can  just  make  out  his  sail,"  she  said,  calling  back  to 
Margaret,  excitedly,  and  evidently  having  entirely  forgotten 
her  reasoning  mood  of  the  moment  before.  "  The  fog  is  ris 
ing.  Come  quick  and  look." 

But  Margaret  did  not  come.  When  the  sail  finally  disap 
peared,  Garda  came  back,  bright  and  happy.  Then,  as  she 
saw  her  friend's  face,  her  own  face  changed  to  sudden  sym 
pathy. 

"  Margaret,"  she  said,  taking  her  hands,  "  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  you  so  distressed." 


EAST  ANGELS.  347 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?"  murmured  Margaret.  She  looked 
exhausted. 

"You  wouldn't  care  about  all  this  as  you  do  —  care  so 
deeply,  I  mean — if  it  were  not  for  Evert,"  Garda  went  on  ; 
"  it's  that  that  hurts  you  so.  Don't  care  so  much  about  Ev 
ert  ;  throw  him  over,  as  I  have  done." 

"It's  true  that  I  care  about  Evert — about  his  happiness," 
answered  Margaret,  in  the  same  lifeless  tone ;  "  I  have  missed 
happiness  myself,  I  don't  want  him  to  miss  it."  Here  she 
raised  her  eyes,  she  looked  at  Garda  for  a  long  moment  in 
silence. 

The  girl  smiled  under  this  inspection  ;  she  leaned  forward, 
and  put  her  soft  cheek  against  Margaret's,  and  her  arm  round 
Margaret's  shoulders  with  a  caressing  touch. 

A  revulsion  of  feeling  swept  over  the  elder  woman,  she 
took  the  girl's  face  in  both  her  hands,  and  looked  at  it. 

"  Promise  me  to  say  nothing  to  Evert,  not  one  word — I 
mean  about  this  renewal  of  fancy  you  have  for  Lucian,"  she 
said,  quickly. 

"  You  call  it  fancy — " 

"  Never  mind  what  I  call  it.     Promise." 

"  Why,  that's  as  you  choose,  I  left  it  to  you,"  Garda  an 
swered. 

"  I  choose,  then,  that  you  say  nothing.  You're  not  real 
ly  in  earnest,  you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
It's  a  girl's  foolishness ;  you  will  come  to  your  senses  in 
time." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  arrange  it  ?  Any  way  you  like. 
Perhaps  you  really  do  know  more  about  me  than  I  know 
about  myself,"  said  Garda,  with  a  momentary  curiosity  as  to 
her  own  characteristics. 

"We  must  go  back,"  said  Margaret,  her  fatigue  again 
showing  in  her  voice. 

Garda  put  her  arm  round  her  as  a  support,  and,  thus  linked, 
they  walked  back  through  the  long  avenue  over  the  silver 
lace-work  cast  by  the  moon  upon  the  path.  Carlos  Mateo, 
who  had  been  off  on  unknown  excursions,  joined  them  again, 
issuing  in  a  ghostly  manner  from  the  Spanish-bayonet  walk, 
and  falling  into  his  usual  place  behind  them.  The  linked 
figures  crossed  the  open  space,  which  was  again  as  white 


348  EAST  ANGELS. 

as  snow  with  black  trees  at  the  edges,  and  went  softly  in 
through  the  unfastened  door. 

"I'm  going  to  get  you  a  glass  of  wine,"  Garda  whispered. 

Margaret  declined  the  wine,  and  they  separated,  each  go 
ing  noiselessly  to  her  own  room. 

But,  half  an  hour  later,  Garda  stole  in  and  leaned  over  her 
friend.  "  You're  crying,"  she  said — "  I  knew  it !  Oh,  Mar 
garet,  Margaret,  why  do  you  suffer  so  ?" 

"  Don't  mind,"  said  Margaret,  controlling  herself.  "  I 
have  my  own  troubles,  Garda,  and  must  bear  them  as  I  can. 
Go  back  to  your  room." 

But  Garda  would  not  go.  As  there  was  no  place  for  her 
in  Margaret's  narrow  white  bed,  she  got  a  coverlet  and  pil 
lows  and  lay  down  on  a  lounge  that  was  near;  here,  almost 
immediately,  though  she  said  she  should  not,  she  fell  asleep. 
The  elder  woman  did  not  sleep,  she  lay  watching  the  moon 
light  steal  over  the  girl,  then  fade  away.  Later  came  the 
pink  flush  of  dawn  ;  it  touched  the  lounge,  but  Garda  slept 
.on  ;  she  slept  like  a  little  child  ;  her  curling  hair  fell  over  her 
shoulders,  her  cheek  was  pillowed  on  her  round  arm. 

"So  much  truthfulness — such  absolute  truthfulness!"  the 
elder  woman  was  thinking;  "there  must  be  good  in  it,  there 
must." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  IT'S  the  most  absurd  thing — my  being  caught  here  in 
this  way,"  said  Lucian  Spenser.  "  But  who  would  ever  have 
imagined  that  Madam  Giron  could  turn  into  a  tourist !  As 
well  imagine  Torres  a  commercial  traveller." 

"  I  think  he  felt  rather  like  one,"  answered  Margaret,  smil 
ing  ;  "  he  seemed  to  consider  it  an  extraordinary  state  of  af 
fairs  to  be  closing  houses  and  taking  journeys  at  a  lawyer's 
bidding." 

It  was  the  19th  day  of  December.  The  thermometer  out 
side  stood  at  sixty-eight  Fahrenheit.  In  the  drawing-room  of 
East  Angels  were  Mrs.  Carew,  Margaret,  Garda,  Lucian  Spen 
ser,  and  Dr.  Kirby.  Lucian  and  his  wife  had  left  Gracias 
within  a  week  after  that  sail  through  silver  fog  which  had 


EAST  ANGELS.  349 

tempted  Garda.  Their  departure  had  been  sudden,  it  was 
due  to  a  telegraphic  despatch  which  had  come  to  Rosalie  from 
her  uncle  in  New  York;  he  was  seriously  ill,  and  wished  to 
see  her.  This  was  the  uncle  under  whose  roof  she  had  spent 
her  childhood  and  youth.  She  had  not  been  especially  at 
tached  to  him,  she  had  never  supposed  that  he  was  attached 
to  her.  But  all  who  bore  the  Bogardus  name  (save  perhaps 
Rosalie  herself)  reserved  to  themselves  the  inalienable  right 
of  being  as  disagreeable  to  each  other  personally,  year  in, 
year  out,  as  they  chose  to  be,  while  remaining,  nevertheless, 
as  a  family,  indissolubly  united ;  that  is  to  say,  that  though 
as  Cornelia  and  John,  Dick  and  Alida,  they  might  detest 
each  other,  and  show  not  the  slightest  scruples  about  evinc 
ing  that  feeling,  designated  by  their  mutually  shared  surname 
their  ranks  closed  up  at  once,  like  a  line  of  battle  under  at 
tack,  presenting  to  the  world  an  unbroken  front.  Dying,  old 
John  Bogardus  had  wished  to  see  Rosalie — Rosalie,  his  broth 
er  Dick's  child,  who  had  made  that  imprudent  marriage  ;  he 
felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  advise  her  about  certain  investments. 
In  answer  to  his  despatch,  Lucian  had  taken  his  wife  north. 

When  they  reached  New  York,  Rosalie  found  her  uncle 
better ;  the  physicians  gave  no  hope  of  recovery,  but  they 
said  that  he  might  linger  in  this  way  for  two  months  or 
more.  In  this  state  of  affairs  Lucian  suggested  to  his  wife 
that  he  should  leave  her  there,  and  take  a  flying  trip  to  New 
Orleans;  he  had  always  wished  to  make  that  journey  in  the 
winter,  and  this  seemed  as  good  an  occasion  as  any,  since, 
naturally,  "Uncle  Giovanni"  could  have  no  very  burning  de 
sire  to  see  him,  Lucian,  day  after  day.  Rosalie,  anxious  al 
ways  to  put  herself  in  accord  with  her  husband's  ideas,  gave 
her  consent ;  the  separation,  even  for  a  few  weeks,  would  be 
hard  for  her,  but  that  she  would  bear  to  give  Lucian  enter 
tainment. 

lie  left  her,  therefore,  a  little  before  the  middle  of  De 
cember.  And  if  he  arrived  at  Gracias-a-Dios  instead  of  at 
New  Orleans,  this  was  because  he  was  taking  in  Gracias  on 
the  way  ;  was  it  not  as  easy  to  come  first  to  Florida,  and  then 
cross  the  southern  country  westward  to  the  beautiful  city  on 
the  Louisiana  shore,  as  to  follow  the  long  course  of  the  Mis- 
sissipi  down?  If  it  was  not  as  easy,  in  any  case  he  preferred 


350  EAST  ANGELS. 

it,  and  the  course  Lucian  Spenser  preferred  he  generally  fol 
lowed. 

It  was  fortunate,  therefore,  that  he  preferred  nothing  very 
eril.  In  the  present  instance  his  preference  held  intentions 
quite  without  that  element ;  he  should  spend  four  or  live 
days  in  Gracias;  he  should  collect  various  small  possessions, 
which,  owing  to  his  hasty  departure,  he  had  left  scattered 
about  there,  at  East  Angels,  at  Madam  Giron's,  at  the  rec 
tory  ;  he  should  finish  two  or  three  sketches  in  which  he  felt 
an  interest;  and  he  should  say  good-by  in  a  more  leisurely 
way  to  his  relatives,  the  Moores,  as  well  as  to  the  other  peo 
ple  there  whom  he  liked  so  well,  for  he  had  the  feeling  that 
a  long  time  might  elapse  before  he  should  see  the  little  coast 
hamlet  again.  He  had  hoped  to  stay  with  Madam  Giron,  as 
before.  But  when  he  arrived  at  her  door,  late  in  the  after 
noon  of  the  19th,  he  found  it  barred  and  that  lady  absent: 
evidently  his  letter  had  not  reached  her. 

Madam  Giron  had  seemed  to  him  like  one  of  those  barges 
which  lie  moored  far  up  some  quiet  bay,  with  their  masts  re 
moved  and  a  permanent  plank  walk  made  from  the  deck  to 
the  shore.  The  idea  that  this  stationary  craft  could  have 
gone  to  sea,  that  this  sweet-tempered  lady,  with  her  beauti 
ful  eyes,  redundant  figure,  many  children,  and  complete  non- 
admiration  for  energy,  could  have  started  suddenly  on  her 
travels,  had  never  once  occurred  to  him. 

Until  five  days  before,  it  had  never  occurred  to  Madam 
Giron  herself. 

At  that  date  she  had  received  a  letter  from  Cuba  telling 
her  that  a  share  in  some  property  was  awaiting  her  there,  a 
long-contested  lawsuit  having  at  length  been  decided  in  fa 
vor  of  her  mother's  family.  Madam  Giron  consulted  her 
friends :  was  it  an  occasion  when  duty  demanded  that  she 
should  make  the  great  effort  of  going  in  person  to  Cuba  for 
the  sake  of  "  these  dear  angels,"  her  children  (the  lawyer 
having  written  that  her  presence  would  be  necessary),  or  was 
it  not  ?  Gracias  discussed  this  point.  It  was  an  effort  for 
a  lady  to  make ;  a  lady  was  not  in  the  habit  of  leaving  the 
cherished  seclusion  of  her  own  circle,  to  rush  about  the 
world  at  a  lawyer's  request,  exposing  herself  in  public  con 
veyances  to  association  with  all  sorts  of  people ;  some  of  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  351 

friends,  notably  the  Senor  Ruiz  and  her  own  nephew,  Adolfo 
Torres,  were  decidedly  of  the  opinion  that  she  should  not  go. 

"  It's  so  characteristic — their  discussing  it  as  they  are  do- 
in^,"  Winthrop  remarked  to  his  aunt — "  discussing  whether 
or  not  to  take  a  short  journey  in  order  to  secure  an  inherit 
ance." 

"  It's  a  very  small  inheritance,  isn't  it  ?"  asked  Aunt  Ka- 
trina,  languidly. 

"  About  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  I  believe.  But  you  must 
remember  that  without  it  those  children,  probably,  will  have 
nothing  but  that  mortgaged  land." 

"  I  don't  think  the  people  here  know  or  care  whether 
they've  got  money  or  not,"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  in  a  disgust 
ed  tone. 

"  No,  they  don't.  Probably  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  why 
I  like  them  so  well." 

"  Yet  you  have  a  clear  idea  of  the  value  of  property,  Evert." 

"  I  should  think  I  had  !     I've  worked  for  it — my  idea." 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  pursued  Aunt  Katrina,  whose  mind 
was  now  on  her  nephew's  affairs.  "  \Vhen  you  went  north 
last  month,  wasn't  it  on  account  of  something  connected 
with  that  cousin  of  yours,  or  rather  of  your  father's,  David 
Winthrop  ?" 

"  Well,  David  has  great  capacity:  he  is  really  wonderful," 
answered  Winthrop,  coming  out  of  his  reverie  to  smile  at 
the  remembrance  of  the  ineffectual  man.  "  In  spite  of  the 
new  partnership,  he  had  managed  to  tangle  up  everything 
almost  worse  than  before." 

"Yet  people  call  you  hard!"  commented  Aunt  Katrina, 
plaintively. 

"I  am  hard,  I  spend  half  my  time  trying  not  to  be,"  re 
sponded  her  nephew,  in  what  she  called  one  of  his  puzzling 
tones.  Aunt  Katrina  sometimes  found  Evert  very  puzzling. 

Madam  Giron  had  finally  decided  to  follow  the  advice  of 
Dr.  Kirby,  which  was,  and  had  been  unwaveringly  from  the 
beginning,  to  go.  For  she  could  not  but  be  aware  that  the 
Doctor  had  a  very  extensive  acquaintance  with  life,  that  he 
was  more  truly  a  man  of  the  world  than  any  one  they  had 
in  Gracias ;  she  mentioned  this  during  a  confidential  inter 
view  she  had  with  his  mother.  The  Doctor,  of  course,  was 


352  EAST  ANGELS. 

not  surprised  by  her  statement ;  he  could  not  help  knowing 
that  he  was. 

Madam  Giron,  therefore,  had  left  her  children  with  Madam 
Ruiz,  closed  her  house;  and  started,  accompanied  by  the  dis 
approving  Torres,  three  days  before  Lucian's  arrival  at  her 
locked  door. 

The  wagon  which  had  brought  him  was  well  on  its  way 
back  towards  Gracias;  he  had  walked  up  the  long,  winding 
path  which  led  to  the  house,  leaving  his  luggage  piled  at  the 
distant  gate.  He  turned  and  stood  a  moment  on  the  piazza, 
meditating  upon  what  he  should  do.  Then  he  left  the  piaz 
za  and  went  towards  the  branch,  where  was  the  cabin  of  old 
Cajo,  Madam  Giron's  factotum.  Cajo's  wife,  Juana,  was  cook 
at  the  "  big  house,"  and  the  two  old  servants  were  delighted 
to  extend  the  hospitality  which  their  mistress,  they  knew, 
would  have  immediately  ordered  had  she  been  at  home.  In 
half  an  hour,  therefore,  the  guest  was  seated  at  the  "  big 
house"  table,  before  an  impromptu  but  excellent  meal,  his 
old  room  was  ready  for  him  up-stairs,  and  there  were  even 
lights  in  the  drawing-room,  which,  however,  he  extinguished 
as  he  passed  by  on  his  way  to  the  hall  door.  He  locked  this 
door  behind  him,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket;  the  two 
servants  were  not  to  wait  for  him,  they  were  to  go  back  to 
their  cabin  as  soon  as  their  work  was  done,  taking  with  them 
the  key  of  another  entrance. 

Lucian  was  going  to  East  Angels.  He  went  through  the 
fields,  still  lighted  by  the  after-glow,  then  passed  into  the  dim 
ness  of  the  wood ;  reaching  East  Angels'  border,  he  crossed 
the  Levels,  and  approached  the  house  through  the  orange 
walk.  As  he  had  written  only  to  Madam  Giron,  and  the  let 
ter  had  followed  her  to  Cuba,  no  one  knew  that  he  was  com 
ing.  He  entered  the  drawing-room.  And  there  was  a  cry 
of  surprise. 

The  evening  that  followed  was  enlivened  by  animated  con 
versation,  Dr.  Kirby  thought  it  almost  a  brilliant  occasion. 
The  brilliancy  without  doubt  had  been  excited  by  Lucian's 
unexpected  arrival,  and  he  had  brought  his  own  gay  spirits 
with  him  ;  still,  they  had  all  contributed  something,  the  Doc 
tor  felt;  his  own  sentences,  for  instance,  had  displayed  not  a 
small  degree  of  "perspicuity."  The  Doctor  had  his  own  de- 


EAST  ANGELS.  353 

scriptive  terms,  he  bad  no  idea  that  they  had  grown  old-fash 
ioned.  Garda's  remarks  he  designated  as  "  sprightly,"  Mar 
garet's  way  of  talking  he  characterized  as  "  most  engaging ;" 
the  Doctor  still  praised  a  young  man  for  possessing  "  sensi 
bility  ;"  he  could  even  restore  the  lost  distinction  to  that 
fallen-from-grace  word  "  genteel."  When,  after  one  of  his 
visits  at  East  Angels,  he  said  to  his  little  mother — he  de 
scribed  everything  to  her,  partly  because  he  liked  to  describe, 
but  principally  because  he  was  a  devoted  son,  and  did  all  he 
could  to  entertain  her — "  The  conversation,  ma,  during  the 
evening  was  easy,  animated,  and  genteel,"  it  must  have  been 
a  coarse-grained  person  indeed  who  could  not  appreciate  the 
delicate  aroma  of  that  last  word  as  used  by  him. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  conversation  had  been  even 
more  than  this;  and  when  at  last  it  was  brought  to  a  close, 
and  the  Doctor,  having  indulged  in  a  general  mental  review 
of  it  (especially  his  own  share),  which  made  him,  as  glory  is 
apt  to  do,  extraordinarily  thirsty,  was  compounding  a  glass 
of  orangeade  to  drink  before  going  to  bed,  he  could  not  re 
sist  remarking  to  Winthrop,  as  the  latter  passed  through  the 
empty  room  on  his  way  to  the  balcony  for  a  final  cigarette, 
"Quite  a  brilliant  little  occasion,  wasn't  it?" 

"Thanks  to  you,"  Winthrop  answered. 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  the  Doctor,  much  pleased,  but  still 
considerate.  "  I  am  old,  and  can  no  longer  be  a  leader.  But 
that  young  Spenser,  now — 

"Yes,  that  young  Spenser  now — thanks  to  him  too,"  said 
Winthrop,  disappearing. 

The  Doctor  could  not  but  think  that  his  host  was  some 
times  a  little  dry. 

The  next  day  Lucian  finished  one  of  his  sketches,  went 
up  to  Gracias  to  pay  some  visits,  and  returned  at  sunset;  he 
again  spent  the  evening  at  East  Angels.  lie  announced, 
when  he  came  in,  that  he  had  decided  to  remain  a  week 
longer  in  his  solitary  quarters;  after  that  he  should  spend  a 
day  with  the  Moores,  and  then  start  westward  towards  New 
Orleans. 

"  Eight  days  more,"  said  Garda,  counting. 

"  Yes.  See  how  agreeable  you  will  have  to  be !  Every 
thing  fascinating  you  know,  I  beg  you  to  say,  so  that  my 

23 


354  EAST  ANGELS. 

last  hours  may  be  made  harrow! ugly  delightful ;  for  it's  very 
uncertain  whether  I  ever  see  Gracias  again." 

"  I  don't  care  about '  evers,'  "  said  Garda ;  "  '  cvcrs '  are  al 
ways  far  off.  What  I  care  about  is  to  get  every  instant  of 
those  eight  days."  She  left  her  chair  and  went  across  to 
Winthrop.  "Are  you  going  to  be  nice?"  she  asked,  in  a 
coaxing  tone.  ""Do  be  nice;  arrange  so  that  we  can  go 
somewhere  every  day."  She  spoke  so  that  he  alone  could 
hear  her. 

"Do  you  call  that  being  nice?  I  thought  you  did  not 
like  to  go  out." 

"  When  there's  nobody  but  ourselves  I  don't ;  that  is,  not 
often,  for  it's  always  the  same  people,  the  same  thing.  But 
\vhen  there's  somebody  else,  somebody  I  really  want  to  talk 
to,  that's  different;  there  are  a  great  many  more  chances  to 
talk  and  say  what  you  like  when  everybody  is  walking  about 
in  the  woods  or  on  beaches,  than  you  ever  get  in  a  parlor, 
you  know." 

Winthrop  had  never  lost  his  enjoyment  of  Garda's  frank 
ness.  He  did  not  admire  Lucian  Spenser,  but  he  did  admire 
the  girl's  coming  to  ask  him  to  secure  for  her  as  many  op 
portunities  as  possible  for  being  with  that  fascinating  guest. 

"All  very  well  for  the  present,"  he  answered.  "But  we 
cannot  forever  keep  you  supplied  with  a  new  Punch  and 
Judy." 

"What's  Punch  and  Judy?" 

He  altered  his  sentence.     "  With  new  Lucian  Spensers." 

"  Let  me  have  the  old  one,  then,  as  long  as  I  can,"  re 
sponded  Garda. 

They  made  two  or  three  excursions  from  East  Angels. 
And  she  probably  had  the  "chances"  which  she  had  so  ap 
preciatively  outlined.  Nevertheless,  early  in  the  afternoon 
of  the  fourth  day,  Lucian  came  over  to  say  good-by  to  them, 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  start  westward  sooner  than  he 
had  at  first  intended ;  he  should  not  go  again  to  Gracias,  he 
had  been  up  that  morning  to  take  leave  of  the  Moores ;  he 
should  drive  from  Madam  Giron's  directly  across  to  the  river. 
There  was  a  moon,  he  should  probably  start  about  nine  that 
night. 

"On  Christmas-eve?"  said  Bcttv,  in  astonishment.     "And 


EAST  ANGELS.  355 

be  travelling  on  Christmas  -  day  ?  Why,  Mr.  Spenser,  that 
seems  to  me  downright  heathenish." 

Lucian  did  not  contradict  Betty's  view  of  the  case ;  and 
he  gave  no  reason  for  his  sudden  departure.  There  was  no 
change  in  him  in  any  way,  no  appearance  of  determination 
or  obstinacy  ;  yet  they  could  not  make  him  alter  his  decision, 
though  they  all  tried,  Betty  with  remonstrance,  Dr.  Kirby 
with  general  Christmas  hospitality,  Winthrop  and  Mrs.  Har 
old  with  courtesy.  Garda  did  not  say  much. 

Dr.  Kirby  was  again  at  East  Angels,  Mrs.  Rutherford  hav 
ing  sent  for  him  on  account  of  a  peculiar  sensation  she  felt 
in  a  spot  "about  as  large  as  a  dime"  under  her  collar-bone. 
She  had  improved  since  his  arrival — she  always  improved 
after  the  Doctor's  arrivals ;  but  it  had  been  arranged  that  he 
should  spend  his  Christmas  there,  his  mother  coming  down 
the  next  morning  to  join  the  party. 

Lucian  remained  an  hour;  then  lie  bade  them  all  good-by, 
left  his  farewells  for  Mrs.  Rutherford,  and  departed;  he  had 
still  his  packing  to  do,  he  said.  It  was  not  yet  four  o'clock ; 
it  seemed  as  if  he  had  reserved  for  that  process  a  good  deal 
of  time. 

Garda  had  received  the  tidings  of  his  going  with  dilated 
eyes.  But  the  startled  expression  soon  left  her,  she  laughed 
and  talked,  and,  under  the  laughter,  her  mood  was  a  con 
tented  one;  Margaret,  watching  her,  perceived  beyond  a 
doubt  that  the  contentment  was  real.  After  Lucian  had 
gone,  the  little  party  in  the  drawing-room  broke  up,  and  Mar 
garet  went  to  give  Lucian's  good-by  to  Aunt  Katrina.  Aunt 
Katrina  was  only  "so-so,"  she  was  inclined  to  find  fault  with 
her  niece  for  not  having  brought  Lucian  in  person  to  take 
leave  of  her  instead  of  his  message ;  she  was  lying  on  a 
lounge,  and  there  was  an  impression  of  white  lace  and  wood- 
violets.  No,  she  did  not  care  for  any  reading  that  after 
noon  ;  Dr.  Kirby  was  coming  to  play  backgammon  with  her. 
Betty  now  entered,  and  Margaret  went  to  her  own  room. 
Presently  Garda,  who  had  heard  her  step,  called ;  Margaret 
opened  the  door  of  communication  between  their  two  cham 
bers  and  looked  in.  The  girl  was  swinging  in  her  hammock. 

"Going  out?"  she  said,  as  she  saw  Margaret's  garden-hat. 

"Yes." 


356  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  To  the  garden  ?" 

"  Farther ;  out  on  the  barren." 

"  I  know  where, — to  take  the  medicine  to  that  sick  child. 
Why  don't  you  send  somebody?" 

"  I  like  to  go." 

"  No,  you  don't,"  said  Garda,  laughing.  "  You're  as  good 
as  gold,  Margaret,  but  you  don't  really  like  to  go,  you  don't 
really  like  the  negroes,  personally,  one  bit.  You  would  do 
anything  in  the  world  for  them,  give  them  all  your  money 
and  all  your  time,  teach  school  for  them,  make  clothes  for 
them,  and  I  don't  know  what  all ;  but  you  would  never  un 
derstand  them  though  you  should  live  among  them  all  the 
rest  of  your  life,  and  never  see  a  white  face  again.  Now  I 
wouldn't  take  one  grain  of  the  trouble  for  them  that  you 
would,  because  I  don't  think  it's  in  the  least  necessary.  But, 
personally,  I  like  them,  I  like  to  have  them  about,  talk  to 
them  and  hear  them  talk ;  I  am  really  attached  to  all  the  old 
servants  about  here.  And  I  venture  to  say,  too,  that  they 
would  all  prefer  me  forever,  though  I  didn't  lift  a  finger  for 
them,  prefer  me  to  you,  no  matter  what  sacrifices  you  might 
make  to  help  them,  because  they  would  see  and  feel  that  / 
really  liked  them,  whereas  you  didn't.  But  I  really  think 
you  like  to  be  busy  just  for  the  sake  of  it ;  when  there's 
nothing  else  you  can  do,  you  go  tramping  all  over  the  coun 
try  until  I  should  think  your  feet  would  spread  out  like  a 
duck's.  I  should  like  to  know  when  you  have  given  your 
self  an  hour  or  two  of  absolute  rest — such  as  I  am  taking 
now  ?" 

"  I  can't  sleep  in  the  daytime,"  was  Margaret's  answer  to 
this  general  southern  remonstrance;  "and  a  duck's  feet  are 
very  useful  to  the  duck." 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  know  your  feet  are  lovely.  But  I 
shouldn't  think  they  could  stay  so,  long." 

"  There  seems  to  be  no  end  at  least  to  your  powers  of 
'staying  so,'  especially  when  yon  get  into  a  hammock,"  re 
marked  Margaret.  But  she  spoke  with  a  smile  on  her  lips, 
she  was  well  satisfied  to  see  the  girl  swinging  there  content 
edly,  her  eyes  already  misty  with  sleep. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  closing  the  door.  Then  she  put  on 
her  hat  and  gloves,  and  started  on  her  mission.  The  sick 


EAST  ANGELS.  357 

child,  for  whom  Dr.  Kirby  had  prepared  the  medicine,  lived 
in  a  cabin  two  miles  and  a  half  from  East  Angels,  on  the 
barren.  In  addition  to  the  taste  for  unnecessary  philan 
thropy  which  Garda  had  attributed  to  her,  as  well  as  that 
for  unnecessary  exercise,  Margaret  appeared  to  have  a  taste 
for  solitude  :  she  generally  took  her  long  walks  alone.  That 
is,  she  took  them  whenever  she  had  the  opportunity.  This 
was  not  so  often  as  it  might  have  been,  because  of  Aunt  Ka- 
trina's  little  wishes,  which,  had  a  habit  of  ramifying  through 
all  the  hours  of  the  day.  It  was  not  that  Aunt  Katrina  ex 
pected  you  to  occupy  yourself  in  her  behalf  the  whole  after 
noon,  she  would  have  exclaimed  at  the  idea  that  she  made 
such  exactions  as  that;  she  only  wished  you  to  do  some  one 
little  thing  for  her  at  two  ;  and  then  something  else  "  a  little 
before  three;"  and  then  again  possibly  she  might  "feel  like" 
this  or  that  later,  say,  "any  time"  (liberally)  u  between  half- 
past  four  and  five."  In  this  way  she  was  sure  that  you  had 
almost  the  whole  time  to  yourself. 

In  addition  Margaret  was  house-keeper,  and  with  the  het 
erogeneous  assemblage  of  servants  at  East  Angels,  the  position 
required  an  almost  hourly  exercise  of  diplomacy.  Celestine, 
so  excellent  in  her  own  sphere,  could  not  be  relied  upon  in 
this,  because,  pressed  by  her  desire  to  "  educate  the  black 
man,"  she  was  constantly  introducing  primers  "  in  words  of 
one  syllable"  into  the  sweeping,  dusting,  and  bed-making; 
she  had  even  been  known  to  suspend  one  open  on  the  crane 
in  the  kitchen  fireplace  for  the  benefit  of  Aunt  Dinah-Jim 
during  the  process  (for  which  she  was  celebrated)  of  roasting 
wild-turkey.  But  "  the  black  man,"  including  Aunt  Dinah, 
would  have  been  much  more  impressed  by  primers  in  words 
of  six. 

For  the  rest  of  this  afternoon,  however,  Margaret  was 
free ;  she  had  several  hours  of  daylight  still  before  her. 
She  walked  on  across  the  barren,  and  had  gone  about  half 
the  distance,  when  she  was  overtaken  by  Joe,  the  elder 
brother,  the  sixth  elder  brother,  of  the  little  Jcwlyann  for 
whom  the  medicine  was  intended.  Joe,  a  black  lad  in  a 
military  cap,  and  a  pair  of  his  father's  trousers  which  were 
so  well  strapped  up  over  his  shoulders  by  fragmentary  braces 
that  they  covered  his  breast  and  back,  and  served  as  jacket 


358  EAST  ANGELS. 

as  well,  took  the  vial  from  the  lady  who  was  so  fcind  to 
them  ;  and  then  Margaret,  promising  to  pay  her  visit  anoth 
er  day,  turned  back.  As  she  approached  East  Angels  again, 
she  made  a  long  detour,  and  entered  on  the  southern  side  at 
the  edge  of  the  Levels.  Ilerc,  pausing,  she  looked  at  her 
watch ;  it  was  not  yet  half-past  five,  she  turned  and  entered 
the  south-eastern  woods,  which  came  up  at  this  point  to  the 
East  Angels  border.  Once  within  the  shaded  aisles,  she 
walked  on,  following  no  path,  but  wandering  at  random. 
Any  one  seeing  her  then  would  have  said  that  the  expression 
of  her  face  was  singularly  altered;  instead  of  the  compos 
ure  that  usually  held  sway  there,  it  was  the  expression  of  a 
person  much  agitated  mentally,  and  agitated  by  unhappi- 
ness.  She  walked  on  with  irregular  steps,  her  hands  inter 
locked  and  hanging  before  her,  palms  downward,  her  eyes 
on  the  ground.  After  some  time  she  paused,  and  seemed  to 
make  an  effort  to  press  back  her  troubles,  not  only  a  mental 
effort,  but  a  physical  one,  after  the  manner  of  people  whose 
sensibilities  are  keen ;  she  placed  her  hands  over  her  fore 
head  and  eyes,  and  held  them  there  with  a  firm  pressure  for 
several  minutes;  then  she  let  them  drop,  and  looked  about  her. 

She  had  wandered  far,  she  was  near  the  eastern  boundary 
of  the  wood ;  Madam  Giron's  house  was  in  sight — only  a 
field  lay  between.  She  was  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the 
forest  to  know  that  one  of  the  paths  must  be  near;  three 
paths  crossed  it,  leading  from  East  Angels  to  the  Giron 
plantation  and  beyond,  this  should  be  the  most  easterlv  of 
the  three ;  she  turned  to  look  for  it. 

It  was  not  distant,  and  before  long  she  came  upon  it. 
But  at  the  moment  she  did  so  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Evert 
Winthrop's  figure ;  he  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  path,  at 
some  distance  from  her ;  in  the  wood,  but  nearer  its  edge  than 
she  was.  Seated  on  a  camp-stool,  he  was  apparently  using 
the  last  of  the  daylight  to  finish  a  sketch.  For  he  had  taken 
to  sketching  during  his  long  stay  at  East  Angels,  producing 
pictures  which  were  rather  geometrical,  it  is  true;  but  he 
maintained  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  geometry  in  all 
landscape. 

Margaret  had  now  entered  the  path,  and  was  walking  tow 
ards  home. 


EAST  ANGELS.  359 

It  happened  that  Winthrop  at  this  moment  looked  up; 
but  he  did  not  do  so  until  her  course  had  carried  her  so  far 
past  him  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  give  sign  of 
having  seen  him.  He  was  too  far  off  to  speak;  there  was, 
in  fact,  a  wide  space  between  them,  though  they  could  see 
each  other  perfectly.  But  though,  by  the  breadth  of  a  sec 
ond,  he  had  failed  to  look  up  in  time  to  bow  to  her,  he  was 
in  time  to  see  that  she  had  observed  him — her  eyes  were  in 
the  very  act  of  turning  away.  In  that  same  instant,  too, 
Margaret  perceived  that  he  saw  she  had  observed  him. 

She  passed  on ;  a  minute  later  a  sharp  bend  in  the  path 
took  her  figure  out  of  his  sight.  He  looked  after  her  for  a 
moment,  as  though  hesitating  whether  he  would  not  follow 
her.  Then  he  seemed  to  give  up  the  idea ;  he  returned  to 
his  sketch. 

Margaret,  meanwhile,  walking  rapidly  along  the  path  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bend,  came  upon  some  one — Garda. 

"  Garda !  you  here  ?"  she  said,  stopping  abruptly. 

"  I  might  rather  say  you  here,"  answered  Garda.  "  I 
thought  you  were  out  on  the  barren."  She  spoke  in  her 
usual  tone. 

"  I  didn't  go  far  on  the  barren,"  Margaret  answered ;  "  I 
met  one  of  the  boys  and  gave  him  the  vial,  then  I  came 
round  this  way  for  a  walk.  But  it's  late  now,  we  must  both 
go  home." 

Garda  gave  a  long  sigh,  which,  however,  ended  in  a  smile. 
"Oh  dear!  it's  too  bad  I've  met  you  at  this  moment  of  all 
others,  for  of  course  now  I  shall  have  to  tell  you,  and  you'll 
be  sure  to  be  vexed.  I'm  not  going  home,  I'm  going  over 
to  Madam  Giron's  to  see  Lucian." 

Margaret  looked  at  her,  her  eyes  for  one  brief  instant 
showed  uncertainty.  But  the  uncertainty  was  immediately 
replaced  by  a  decision  :  no,  it  was,  it  must  be,  that  this  girl 
did  not  in  the  least  realize  what  she  was  doing.  "  It  is 
foolish  to  go,  Garda,"  she  said  at  last,  putting  some  ridicule 
into  her  tone;  "Lucian  has  said  good-by  to  you,  he  doesn't 
want  to  see  you  again." 

Garda  did  not  assert  the  contrary.  And  she  remained 
perfectly  unmoved  by  the  ridicule.  "  But  /  want  to  see 
him,"  she  explained. 


360  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  We  can  send  for  him,  then — though  he  will  laugh  at 
you  ;  there  is  plenty  of  time  to  send." 

"  No,"  replied  Garda.  "  For  I  want  to  see  him  by  my 
self,  and  that  I  couldn't  do  at  the  house ;  there'd  be  sure  to 
be  somebody  about ;  you  yourself  wouldn't  be  very  far  off, 
I  reckon.  No,  I've  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  would  rather 
see  him  at  Madam  Giron's." 

"  Absurd  !  You  cannot  have  anything  of  the  least  impor 
tance  to  say  to  him,"  said  Margaret,  still  temporizing.  She 
took  the  girl's  hand  and  drew  it  through  her  arm. 

"Oh,  the  important  thing,  of  course,  is  to  see  him,"  an 
swered  Garda. 

Winthrop  was  so  far  from  the  path  that  the  low  sound  of 
their  voices,  speaking  their  usual  tones,  could  not  reach  him. 
But  the  bend  was  near;  let  Garda  once  pass  it,  and  he  would 
see  her  plainly;  he  would  not  only  see  her  pass  through  the 
wood,  but,  from  where  he  sat,  he  commanded  the  field  which 
she  would  have  to  cross  to  reach  Madam  Giron's.  All  this 
pictured  itself  quickly  in  Margaret's  rnind,  she  tightened  her 
hold  on  the  girl's  hand,  and  the  ridicule  left  her  voice. 
"  Don't  go,  Garda,"  she  said,  beseechingly. 

**  I  must;  it's  my  last  chance." 

tl  I  shouldn't  care  much  for  a  last  chance  which  I  had  had 
to  arrange  entirely  myself." 

"  Well,  that  is  the  difference  between  us — /  should,"  Gar- 
da  answered. 

"  I  shall  have  to  speak  more  plainly,  then,  and  tell  you  that 
you  must  not  go.  It  would  be  thought  extremely  wrong." 

"  Who  would  think  so  ?" 

"  Everybody." 

"  You  know  you  mean  Evert,"  said  Garda,  amused. 

"  I  mean  everybody7.     But  if  it  should  be  Evert  too  ?" 

"  I  shouldn't  care." 

"  If  he  were  somewhere  about  here  now,  and  should  see 
you,  shouldn't  you  care  for  that  ?"  asked  Margaret,  a  change 
of  expression,  in  spite  of  her  effort  to  prevent  it,  passing  over 
her  face. 

But  Garda  did  not  see  the  change  ;  her  eyes  had  happened 
to  fall  upon  a  loosened  end  of  her  sash,  she  drew  her  hand 
away  in  order  to  retie  the  ribbons  in  a  new  knot,  while  she 


EAST  ANGELS. 


answered:  "Do  you  mean  see  me  going  into  Madam  Giron's? 
No,  provided  he  didn't  follow  me.  I  give  you  my  word,  Mar 
garet,  that  I  should  really  like  to  have  Evert  see  me,  I  believe 
I'd  go  half  a  mile  out  of  my  way  on  purpose;  he  is  so  exas- 
peratingly  sure  of  —  " 


"  Of  everything,"  answered  Garda,  making  a  grimace  ;  "  but 
especially  of  me."  Having  now  adjusted  the  knot  to  her  sat 
isfaction,  she  raised  her  eyes  again.  "  But  you  are  the  one 
that  cares,"  she  said,  looking  aUier  friend.  "  I  can't  tell  you 
how  sorry  I  am  that  you  have  met  me  here,"  she  went  on,  in 
a  tone  of  regret.  "  But  how  was  I  to  imagine  that  you  would 
change  your  mind,  and  come  way  round  through  this  wood  ? 
It's  too  late  now."  And  she  walked  on  towards  the  bend. 

Margaret  stood  still  for  a  moment.  Then  she  hurried  af 
ter  her.  "  Garda,"  she  said,  "  I  beg  you  not  to  go  ;  I  beg  you 
here  on  my  knees,  if  that  will  move  you.  f  Your  mother  left 
you  to  me,  I  stand  in  her  place;  think  wliat  she  would  have 
wished.  Oh,  my  dear  child,  it  would  be  very  wrong  to  go, 
listen  to  me  and  believe  me." 

Garda,  struck  by  her  agitation,  had  stopped  ;  with  a  sort 
of  soft  outcry  she  had  prevented  her  from  kneeling.  "  Mar 
garet  !  you  kneel  to  me  ?  —  you  dear,  good,  beautiful  Marga 
ret  !  You  care  so  much  about  it,  then  ?  —  so  very  much  ?" 

"  More  than  anything  in  the  world,"  Margaret  answered, 
in  a  voice  unlike  her  own. 

With  one  of  her  sudden  impulses,  Garda  exclaimed,  "Then 
I  won't  go  !     But  somebody  must  tell  Lucian,"  she  added. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  he  expects  you  ?" 
"  Not  at  the  house.     When  he  came  over  to  say  good-by, 
of  course  I  made  up  my  mind  at  once  that  I  should  see  him 
again  in  some  way  before  he  started  ;  so  when  you  had  gone 
out  on  the  barren  (as  I  supposed),  I  wrote  a  note  and  sent 
Pablo  over  with  it." 

"  Oh,  Garda  !  trust  a  servant—" 

"  Why,  Pablo  would  let  himself  be  torn  to  pieces  before  he 
would  betray  a  Duero  ;  I  verily  believe  he  thinks  he's  a  Du- 
ero  himself  —  a  Duero  a  little  sunburnt!  To  show  you  how 
much  confidence  I  have  in  him  —  in  the  note  I  asked  Lucian 
to  take  this  path,  and  come  as  far  as  the  pool,  where  I  would 


362  EAST  ANGELS. 

meet  him  at  a  certain  hour.  Then,  after  it  was  sealed,  I  re 
membered  that  I  had  not  said  clearly  enough  which  path  I 
meant  (there  are  three,  you  know),  and  so  I  told  Pablo  to  say 
to  Mr.  Spenser  that  I  meant  the  eastern  one.  If  I  hadn't 
been  afraid  he  would  forget  some  of  it,  I  should  have  trusted 
the  old  man  with  the  whole  message,  and  not  taken  the  trou 
ble  to  write  at  all.  Well,  after  the  note  had  gone  I  went  to 
sleep.  And  then,  when  I  woke,  it  came  over  me  suddenly 
how  much  nicer  it  would  be  to  see  Lucian  in  the  house  in 
stead  of  in  the  woods — for  one  thing,  we  could  have  chairs, 
you  know — and  so  I  came  over  earlier  than  I  had  at  first  in 
tended,  in  order  to  get  to  Madam  Giron's  before  he  would  be 
starting  for  the  pool.  But  you  have  kept  me  so  long  that 
he  must  be  starting  no\v." 

"  Let  us  go  home  at  once,"  said  Margaret. 

"  No,  I  can't  let  him  go  to  the  pool,  and  wait  and  wait 
there  all  for  nothing. — Who's  that?"  she  added,  in  a  startled 
voice. 

They  both  looked  westward.  In  this  direction,  the  direc 
tion  of  East  Angels,  the  path's  course  was  straight  for  a  Jong 
distance ;  the  wood  had  grown  dimmer  in  the  slowly  fading 
light,  and  the  figure  they  now  saw  at  the  far  end  of  this  vista, 
coming  towards  them,  was  not  yet  clearly  outlined  ;  yet  they 
both  recognized  it. 

"  Dr.  Kirby  !"  whispered  Garda.  "  He  knows — he  is  com 
ing  after  me.  He  would  never  be  here  at  this  hour  unless  it 
were  for  that."  She  seized  Margaret's  hands.  "  Oh,  what 
shall  I  do?  It  isn't  for  myself  I  care,  but  he  mustn't  meet 
Lucian." 

"  Come  into  the  woods.  This  way."  And  Margaret  hur 
ried  her  from  the  path,  in  among  the  trees  on  the  south  side 
of  it. 

But  Garda  stopped.  "  No — that  leaves  him  to  meet  Lucian. 
And  he  mustnt  meet  Lucian.  He  mustn't  meet  Lucian." 

From  the  point  in  the  forest  to  which  Margaret  had  brought 
her,  the  southern  end  of  Madam  Giron's  house  was  in  sight. 
At  this  instant  Lucian  himself  appeared  ;  he  opened  the  door, 
walked  across  the  piazza,  and  stood  there  looking  about  him. 

The  sight  of  him  doubled  Garda's  terror.  "I  must  go  and 
warn  him,"  she  said  ;  "  there's  time." 


EAST  ANGELS.  363 

"  What  is  it  you  are  so  afraid  of  ?"  Margaret  asked. 

"  The  Doctor  will  shoot  him." 

"  Nonsense !  The  Doctor  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort." 
The  idea  struck  the  northern  woman  as  childish. 

"  That  only  shows  how  little  you  know  him,"  responded 
Garda,  still  in  a  whisper.  "  He  thinks,  of  course,  that  Lucian 
has  been  to  blame." 

Her  white  lips  convinced  Margaret  even  against  her  own 
beliefs ;  she  knew  that  the  girl  had  not  a  grain  of  the  coward 
in  her  nature. 

"  I  can't  wait."  And  Garda  broke  from  her  friend's  hold, 
and  ran  towards  the  path  and  the  bend. 

Margaret  was  almost  as  quick  as  she  was,  she  stopped  her 
before  the  bend  was  reached.  But  though  she  stopped  her, 
she  felt  that  she  could  not  detain  her  for  more  than  an  in 
stant  ;  the  girl  was  past  restraint  now,  her  eyes  had  flashed 
at  Margaret's  touch. 

"  Listen, Garda:  go  back  up  the  path,  and  meet  Dr.  Kirby 
yourself.  Tell  him  anything  you  like  to  keep  him  away 
from  here,  while  /  warn  Lucian."  The  bend  was  now  not 
more  than  three  yards  distant,  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  looked 
at  it,  her  eyes  had  a  strange  expression. 

"  Will  you  go  to  the  very  house  and  take  him  in  ?"  Garda 
demanded.  "  Because  if  you  won't  do  that,  I  shall  go  myself." 

"  Yes,  I  will  take  him  in." 

"  And  will  you  stay  there  ?" 

"As  long  as  it's  necessary." 

The  implicit  confidence  which  Garda  had  in  her  friend's 
word  prevented  her  from  having  any  misgivings ;  she  turned 
and  ran  up  the  path  towards  Dr.  Kirby,  who  was  still  at  some 
distance  (for  these  words  and  actions  of  the  two  women  had 
been  breathlessly  swift),  and  who,  owing  to  his  near-sighted 
ness,  could  not  yet  see  her.  When  she  thought  he  might 
be  able  to  distinguish  her  figure  she  stopped  running,  and 
walked  forward  to  meet  him  with  her  usual  leisurely  grace. 
The  running  had  brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks,  and  taken 
away  the  unwonted  look  of  fear;  all  that  was  left  of  it  was 
the  eager  attention  with  which  she  listened  to  what  he  said. 

This  was  harmless  enough.  "Ah  !  you  have  been  out  tak 
ing  the  air?"  he  remarked,  pleasantly. 


364  EAST  ANGELS. 

In  the  mean  while  Margaret  had  passed  the  bend  with  rap 
id  step,  and  followed  the  path  down  to  the  wood's  border; 
reaching  it,  she  did  not  pause,  and  soon  her  figure  was  clear 
ly  outlined  crossing  the  open  field  towards  Madam  Giron's. 
She  opened  the  gate  in  the  low  hedge,  and  went  up  to  the 
door;  as  it  happened,  Lucian  had  gone  within  for  a  moment, 
leaving  the  door  open;  now  he  re -appeared,  coming  out. 
But  at  the  same  instant  Margaret,  crossing  the  piazza,  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm  and  drew  him  in.  As  he  came  forth  in 
his  strong  youth  and  sunny  beauty,  she  had  felt  herself  un 
expectedly  and  singularly  seized  by  Garda's  terror ;  she  had 
never  liked  him,  but  now  it  rose  before  her,  horrible  and  in 
credible — the  vision  of  so  much  splendid  physical  life  being 
suddenly  brought  low.  She  forgot  that  she  had  not  believed 
in  the  reality  of  this  danger,  she  was  possessed  by  a  woman 
ish  panic;  swayed  by  it,  she  quickly  drew  him  within  and 
closed  the  door.  Yet  though  with  a  sudden  shiver  she  had 
done  this,  in  reality  her  whole  soul  was  at  the  moment  ab 
sorbed  by  another  feeling  compared  with  which  the  dread 
was  as  momentary  as  a  ripple  passing  over  a  deep  lake ;  it 
lasted  no  longer. 

She  had  drawn  Lucian  within,  and  she  had  closed  the 
door.  But  from  where  Evert  Winthrop  sat  in  the  shade, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  their  two  figures,  it  looked  as  though 
Lucian  had  played  the  active  part  in  this  little  scene;  as 
though  Lucian  had  taken  her  hand  and  led  her  within ;  and 
had  then  closed  the  door  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD  had  dismissed  Margaret  for  the  re 
mainder  of  that  afternoon,  saying  that  Dr.  Kirby  was  com 
ing  to  play  backgammon  with  her.  Soon  after  Margaret 
had  started  to  cross  the  barren  with  the  vial  of  medicine 
for  the  sick  child,  the  Doctor  came.  They  played  a  number 
of  games.  Mrs.  Rutherford  liked  backgammon ;  and  cer 
tainly  nothing  could  be  better  for  a  graceful  use  of  beauti 
ful  hands.  After  the  board  had  been  put  away,  "there  was 


EAST  ANGELS.  363 

conversation,"  as  Betty  would  have  said ;  Betty  herself  was 
present  and  took  part  in  it.  Then  the  Doctor  left  the  two 
ladies  and  went  to  his  own  room. 

On  the  way  he  was  stopped  by  Pablo,  who  had  come  up 
stairs  for  the  purpose.  "  Please,  sah,  ter  step  down  en  see 
Sola ;  seems  like  he  look  mighty  kuse." 

Osceola  had  a  corner  of  his  own  in  his  master's  heart. 
At  the  first  suggestion  that  any  ill  had  befallen  him,  the  Doc 
tor  seized  his  "hat  and  hastened  out  to  the  stables,  followed 
by  the  old  negro,  who  did  not  make  quite  so  much  haste. 
The  stout  black  horse,  comfortable  and  glossy,  seemed  to  be 
in  the  possession  of  his  usual  health.  "  There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  him,  Pablo,"  the  Doctor  said. 

"  Looks  sorter  quare  ter  me,"  Pablo  answered  ;  "  'pears  dat 
he  doan  git  nuflE  exercise.  Might  ride  'em  little  ways  now, 
befo'  dark ;  I  done  put  de  saddle  on  on  puppus."  And  Os 
ceola  in  truth  was  saddled  and  bridled. 

"  I  don't  want  to  ride  now,"  said  the  Doctor. 

He  had  a  great  regard  for  Pablo,  and  humored  him  as  all 
the  former  masters  and  mistresses  of  Gracias  a-Dios  humored 
the  decrepit  old  family  servants  who  had  been  left  stranded 
among  them  behind  the  great  wave  of  emancipation.  Pablo, 
on  his  side,  had  as  deep  a  respect  for  the  Doctor  as  he  could 
have  for  any  one  who  was  not  of  the  blood  of  the  Dneros. 

"  Do  Sola  lots  er  good  ter  go,"  he  persisted,  bending  to 
alter  one  of  the  straps  of  the  saddle ;  "  he  not  well,  sho. 
Might  ride  'em  long  todes  Maddum  Giron's,  cross  de  Lebbuls 
en  troo  de  wood  by  de  eastymose  nigh-cut." 

The  Doctor  was  listening  now  with  attention.  Pablo  went 
on  working  at  the  strap.  "De  eastymose  nigh-cut,"  he  re 
peated,  as  if  talking  to  himself. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  the  Doctor,  after  a  moment, 
his  eyes  sharply  scanning  the  withered  black  face  which  was 
bending  over  the  strap.  "And  I  suppose  if  I  go  at  all,  I 
might  as  well  go  at  once,  eh  ?  So  as  not  to  have  him  out  in 
the  dew  ?" 

"  Yes,  sah,"  answered  Pablo.    "  De  soonah  de  bettah,  sah." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Doctor. 

Pablo  led  out  the  horse,  and  the  Doctor  mounted.  "  Meb- 
be,  sah,  if  you's  gwine  as  fur  as  Maddum  Giron's,  you'd  be  so 


366  EAST  ANGELS. 

good  as  tcr  kyar'  dish  ycr  note,  as  I  wuz  gwine  fer  tcr  kyar  it 
rnyse'f,  on'y  my  rhcumatiz  is  so  bad,"  said  the  old  man.  He 
held  up  an  envelope,  which  he  had  carefully  wrapped  in 
brown  paper,  so  that  it  should  not  become  soiled  in  his 
pocket. 

The  Doctor's  face  showed  no  expression  of  any  kind ;  and 
Pablo's  own  countenance  remained  stolidly  dull.  "I  hope 
you'll  skuse  me,  sah,  fer  askin', "  he  said,  respectfully;  "it's 
my  bad  rhcumatiz,  sah." 

"  Yes,  Pablo,  I  know ;  I  can  as  well  carry  the  note  as  not," 
said  the  Doctor,  carelessly. 

Pablo  made  a  jerk  with  his  head  and  hand,  which  was  his 
usual  salutation,  and  the  Doctor  rode  off. 

When  at  a  distance  from  the  house,  and  among  the  trees 
where  no  one  could  see  him,  he  took  out  the  package  and 
opened  it.  It  contained  a  sealed  envelope  with  an  address; 
holding  it  out  at  a  distance  from  his  eyes  in  order  to  be  able 
to  read  it  without  his  glasses,  he  found  that  the  name  was 
Lucian  Spenser;  and  the  handwriting  was  Garda's.  The 
Doctor  sat  for  a  moment  staring  at  it ;  then  he  put  the  note 
back  in  his  pocket  and  rode  on  ;  even  there,  where  there  was 
no  one  to  see  him  but  the  birds,  his  face  betrayed  nothing. 

He  went  towards  the  Levels.  Reaching  them,  he  crossed 
to  the  point  where  the  south-eastern  wood  came  up  to  their 
border,  and,  dismounting,  tied  his  horse  and  entered  the 
wood  by  the  easterly  path.  Passing  the  pool,  which  glim 
mered  dimly  in  the  shade,  he  came  to  the  long  straight  vista 
which  led  to  the  bend ;  here,  when  half-way  across,  he  saw  a 
figure  coming  towards  him,  and  a  moment  later  he  recognized 
it — Garda. 

He  doffed  his  hat  with  his  usual  ceremony.  "  Ah,  you 
have  been  out  taking  the  air?"  he  said,  pleasantly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Garda.     "  But  I'm  going  back  now." 

"Did  you  go  far?"  He  spoke  with  his  customary  kindly 
interest.  While  speaking  he  put  on  his  glasses  and  looked 
down  the  path ;  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

"  No,"  Garda  answered ;  "  only  a  little  way  beyond  here.  I 
had  thought  of  going  over  to  Madam  Giron's  to  bid  a  second 
good-by  to  Lucian  Spenser;  then  I  changed  my  mind.  I'm 
going  home  now  without  seeing  him  ;  that  is,  I've  started  for 


EAST  ANGELS.  367 

home,"  she  added,  half  smiling, half  sighing;  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  shall  get  there !" 

"  We  will  go  together,"  said  the  Doctor,  offering  her  his 
arm  ;  "I  shall  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  you, 
if  you  will  permit  it,  I  think  I  have  had  walk  enough  for  to 
day."  He  stopped  a  moment,  however,  to  admire  the  size  of 
the  oaks,  he  delivered  quite  an  eloquent  apostrophe  to  Nat 
ure,  as  she  reveals  herself  "in  bark;"  then  he  turned,  and 
they  went  back  towards  East  Angels,  walking  slowly  onward, 
and  talking  as  they  went. 

That  is,  the  Doctor  talked.  And  his  conversation  had 
never  been  more  delightful.  He  spoke  of  the  society  of  the 
city  of  Charleston  in  colonial  times;  he  described  the  little 
church  .at  Goose  Creek,  now  buried  in  woods,  but  still  pre 
serving  its  ancient  tombs  and  hatchments ;  he  enumerated 
the  belles,  each  a  toast  far  and  wide,  who  had  reigned  in  the 
manor-houses  on  the  Ashley  and  Cooper  rivers.  Coming 
down  to  modern  times,  he  even  said  a  few  words  about  Luci- 
an  Spenser.  "  You  find  him  agreeable;  yes — yes ;  he  has  rath 
er  an  engaging  wit  of  the  light  modern  sort.  But  it's  super 
ficial,  it  has  no  solidity  ;  it  has,  as  I  may  say,  no  proper  form. 
When  you  have  seen  more  of  the  world,  my  child,  you  will 
know  better  how  to  estimate  such  qualities  at  their  true  worth. 
But  I  can  well  understand  that  they  amuse  you  for  the  pres 
ent — the  young  man  is,  in  fact,  very  amusing;  in  the  old 
days,  Garda,  your  ancestors  would  have  enjoyed  having  just 
such  a  person  for  their  family  jester." 

Garda  looked  off  through  the  woods  to  hide  her  smile. 
If  the  Doctor  could  have  seen  that  smile,  he  might  not  have 
been  so  well  content  with  his  jester  comparison  ;  but  he  could 
not  see  it,  and  he  remained  convinced  that  his  idea  had  been 
a  particularly  happy  one.  "  A  feather' s-weight  touch,"  he 
said  to  himself,  with  almost  grateful  self --congratulation  ; 
"  bu?t  masterly!  I  doubt  whether  even  Walpole  could  have 
done  it  better." 

As  they  approached  the  Levels  he  made  a  little  turn  through 
the  wood  in  order  to  look  at  a  tree  with  a  peculiarly  curved 
trunk — another  form  of  Nature  as  manifested  in  bark — and 
this  brought  Garda  out  at  some  distance  from  Osceola,  who 
was  hidden  by  an  intervening  thicket.  They  walked  across 


368  EAST  ANGELS. 

the  Levels,  and  at  length  reached  the  house,  the  Doctor  go 
ing-  in  with  his  ward,  accompanying  her  tip-stairs,  still  talking 
cheerfully,  and  leaving  her  at  her  door ;  he  then  went  on  with 
leisurely  step  to  his  own  room.  But  this  apartment  possessed 
two  entrances ;  coming  in  at  the  first,  the  Doctor,  after  clos 
ing  this  door  behind  him,  merely  crossed  his  floor  and  went 
out  through  the  second,  which  opened  upon  a  corridor  lead 
ing  to  another  stairway ;  in  two  minutes  he  was  on  his  way 
back  to  the  Levels. 

Having  crossed  them  again,  he  found  Osceola  standing 
meditatively  where  he  had  left  him  ;  Osceola  was  a  patient 
beast.  He  mounted  him,  and  rode  into  the  wood,  following 
the  same  path  which  he  had  just  traversed  with  Garda;  he 
intended  to  follow  it  to  the  end.  On  the  way  he  met  no 
one.  At  the  house  he  found  no  one.  His  two  long  jour 
neys  on  foot  across  the  Levels  had  taken  time ;  he  was  not  a 
rapid  walker,  he  eould  not  be  with  such  neatly  finished  steps. 
When,  therefore,  he  drew  rein  at  Madam  Giron's,  all  was 
closed  and  dark,  there  was  no  one  about. 

The  moon  was  rising ;  by  its  light  he  made  his  way  back 
to  Cajo's  cabin  near  the  branch. 

"  Cajo »" 

Cajo  came  out.     He  was  astonished  to  see  the  Doctor. 

"I  came  over  to  speak  to  Mr.  Spenser  a  moment,  Cajo. 
Has  he  gone,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  sah ;  went  haffen  'nour  ago." 

"  Ah,  earlier  than  he  intended,  I  conjecture.  But  I  dare 
say  some  one  else  has  been  over  from  East  Angels  this  even 
ing?'7  The  Doctor  used  the  word  "evening"  as  "after 
noon." 

"  No,  sah  ;  no  one."  And  Cajo  spoke  the  truth  ;  neither 
he  nor  Juana  had  been  at  the  "  big  house  "  when  Margaret 
came,  and  they  had  not  seen  her  go  away.  But  the  Doctor 
of  course  was  not  thinking  of  Margaret. 

"  Ah, — very  possibly  Mr.  Spenser  strolled  over  again  in 
our  direction,  then  ;  I  was  occupied,  and  shouldn't  have  seen 
him." 

"  No,  sail,  he  ain't  gwine  nowhar ;  he  come  home  befoT 
fibe,  en  here  he  stay  twel  he  start." 

"  It's  of  no  consequence,  though  I  thought  I  should  have 


EAST  ANGELS.  369 

been  in  time.  I  hope  you  have  persevered,  Cajo,  in  the  use 
of  that  liniment  I  sent  you  for  your  lame  arm  ?" 

And  after  a  few  more  words  with  the  old  couple,  who 
stood  bowing  and  courtesying  at  their  low  door,  the  Doctor 
rode  Osceola  on  a  walk  down  the  winding  path  which  led 
from  Madam  Giron's  to  the  water  road.  This  water  road 
ran  southward  from  East  Angels,  following  the  edge  of  the 
lagoon ;  it  was  comparatively  broad  and  opon,  and,  though 
longer,  the  Doctor  now  preferred  it  to  that  dark  track  through 
the  wood,  since  it  had  become  evident  that  there  was  no  one 
in  the  wood  at  present  with  whom  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  hold  some  slight  conversation. 

Reaching  East  Angels  in  safety,  he  entered  the  drawing- 
room  half  an  hour  later,  very  tired,  but  freshly  dressed,  and 
repressing  admirably  all  signs  of  his  fatigue.  He  found 
Mrs.  Carew  engaged  in  telling  Garda's  fortune  in  solemn 
state  with  four  packs  of  cards,  as  an  appropriate  rite  for 
Christmas-eve;  the  cards  were  spread  upon  a  large  table  be 
fore  her,  and  Garda  and  Winthrop  were  looking  on.  Upon 
inquiring  for  Margaret  (the  Doctor  always  inquired  for  the 
absent),  he  was  told  that  she  was  suffering  from  headache, 
and  would  not  be  able  to  join  them. 

Garda  was  merry ;  she  was  merry  over  the  fact  that  a  cer 
tain  cousin  of  Madam  Ruiz,  whom  they  had  never  any  of 
them  seen,  kept  turning  up  (the  card  that  represented  him) 
through  deal  after  deal  as  her  close  companion  in  the  "  fort 
une,"  while  the  three  other  named  cards — Winthrop,  Manuel, 
and  Torres — remained  as  determinedly  remote  from  her  as 
the  table  would  allow. 

"  I  don't  see  what  ever  induced  me  to  put  him  in  at  all," 
said  Betty,  in  great  vexation,  rubbing  her  chin  spitefully  with 
the  card  she  was  holding  in  her  hand.  "  I  suppose  it's  be 
cause  Madam  Ruiz  has  kept  talking  about  him — Julio  de 
Sandoval,  Julio  de  Sandoval — and  something  in  his  name  al 
ways  reminded  me  of  sandal-wood,  you  know,  which  is  so 
nice,  though  some  people  do  faint  away  if  you  have  fans 
made  of  it,  which  is  dreadful  at  concerts,  of  course,  because 
then  they  have  to  be  carried  out,  and  that  naturally  makes 
everybody  think,  of  course,  that  the  house  is  on  fire.  Well, 
the  real  trouble  was,  Garda,  that  I  had  to  have  four  knights 

24 


370  EAST  ANGELS. 

for  you,  of  course,  because  that's  the  rule,  and  there  arc  only 
three  unmarried  men  in  Gracias — Mr.  Winthrop,  Manuel  (his 
away),  and  Adolfo  (he's  away  too) — which  I  must  say  is  a 
very  poor  assortment  for  anybody  to  choose  from !" 

This  entirely  unintended  disparagement  made  Winthrop 
smile.  In  spite  of  his  smile,  however,  the  Doctor  thought 
he  looked  preoccupied.  The  Doctor  had  put  on  his  glasses 
to  inspect  Betty's  spread-out  cards,  and,  having  them  on,  he 
took  the  opportunity  to  glance  across,  two  or  three  times,  at 
their  host,  who  had  now  left  the  table,  and  was  seated  with 
a  newspaper  near  a  lamp  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 
Their  host,  for  such  in  fact  he  was,  though  everything  at 
East  Angels  went  on  in  Mrs.  Rutherford's  name,  seemed  to 
the  furtively  watching  Kirby  to  be  at  present  something 
more  than  preoccupied ;  his  face  behind  the  paper  (he  prob 
ably  thought  he  was  not  observed)  had  taken  on  a  very  stern 
expression.  Having  established  this  point  beyond  a  doubt, 
the  Doctor  felt  his  cares  growing  heavier ;  he  crossed  the 
room  to  a  distant  window,  and  stood  there  looking  out  by 
himself  for  some  time. 

It  troubled  him  to  see  Winthrop  with  that  expression,  and 
the  reason  it  troubled  him  was  because  he  could  not  tell 
what  sternness  with  him  might  mean.  It  might  mean — and 
then  again  it  might  not  mean — he  confessed  to  himself  that 
he  had  not  the  least  idea  what  interpretation  to  give  it,  he 
had.  never  really  understood  this  northerner  at  all.  Garda 
was  engaged  to  him,  of  course,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that; 
he  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  the  engagement  had  never 
been  formed.  But  he  recognized  that  wishes  were  useless, 
the  thing  was  done ;  to  the  Doctor,  an  engagement  was  al 
most  as  binding  as  a  marriage,  lie  stared  out  into  the  dark 
ness  in  a  depressed  sort  of  way,  and  his  back,  which  was  all 
of  him  that  could  be  seen  by  the  others,  had  a  mournful 
look  ;  the  Doctor's  back  was  always  expressive,  but  generally 
it  expressed  a  gallant  cheerfulness  that  met  the  world  brave 
ly.  Winthrop's  purchase,  at  a  high  price,  not  only  of  East 
Angels  with  its  empty  old  fields,  but  also  of  all  the  outlying 
tracts  of  swamp  and  forest  land  owned  by  the  Dueros,  to  the 
very  last  acre,  had  made  Garda's  position  independent  as  re 
garded  money ;  but  in  his  present  tnood  the  Doctor  cursed 


EAST  ANGELS.  371 

the  independence  as  well  as  the  wealth  that  had  produced  it. 
Independence?  what  does  a  young  girl  want  with  indepen 
dence  ?  Garda  had  needed  nothing ;  they  were  able  to  take 
care  of  her  themselves,  and  they  wanted  no  such  gross  mod 
ern  fortunes  invading  and  deteriorating  Gracias-a-Dios !  But 
it  was  too  late  now ;  their  little  girl  was  not  their  own  any 
more,  she  was  engaged. 

As  to  her  imprudence  of  to-day — that  was  owing  to  her 
taste  for  amusement,  or  rather  for  being  amused  ;  they  had 
not,  perhaps,  paid  sufficient  attention  to  this  trait  of  hers. 
But,  in  any  case,  it  was,  on  her  side,  nothing  but  thoughtless 
ness.  The  person  who  had  been  to  blame  was  Lucian  Spen 
ser!  He  (the  Doctor)  had  been  too  late  in  his  pursuit  of 
Lucian.  But  perhaps  Winthrop  would  not  be  too  late.  For 
of  course  Winthrop  would  wish —  But  there,  again- — would 
he  wish  ? — the  Doctor  felt,  with  bewildered  discomfiture,  that 
he  had  not  sufficient  knowledge  of  this  man's  opinions  to 
enable  him  to  form  any  definite  conclusions  on  this  subject, 
plain  and  simple  as  the  matter  appeared  to  his  own  view. 

And  then,  in  order  to  wish  anything,  Winthrop  must  first 
know ;  and  who  was  to  tell  him  ?  And  when  he  had  been 
told,  would  he  take  their  view,  his  (the  Doctor's)  view-— the 
only  true  one — of  Garda's  taste  for  being  amused?  The 
Doctor  felt  that  he  should  like  to  see  him  take  any  other ! 
Still,  he  did  not  own  Evert  Winthrop,  and  he  could  not  help 
asking  himself  whether  any  of  that  sternness  now  visible  on 
the  face  behind  the  newspaper  would  be  apt  to  fall  upon 
Garda,  in  case  the  possessor  of  the  face  should  have  a  differ 
ent  opinion  from  theirs  as  to  her  little  fancies.  He  clinched 
his  fist  at  the  mere  thought. 

Garda's  voice  broke  in  upon  his  reverie,  she  summoned  him 
to  the  table  to  see  the  conclusion  of  her  "fortune."  And 
as  he  obeyed  her  summons,  his  cares  suddenly  grew  lighter: 
a  girl  with  such  a  frank  voice  as  that  could  not  possibly  have 
a  secret  to  guard.  In  the  midst  of  this  reasoning,  the  Doc 
tor  would  have  knocked  down  anybody  (beginning  with  him 
self)  who  had  dared  to  suggest  that  she  had. 

That  night,  before  going  to  bed,  the  Doctor  burned  upon 
the  hearth  of  his  own  room  Garda's  sealed  note  just  as  it 
was;  and  he  took  the  precaution,  furthermore,  to  wrap  it  in 


372  EAST  ANGELS. 

an  old  newspaper,  in  order  that  he  should  not  by  chance  see 
any  of  its  written  words  in  the  momentary  magnifying  pow 
er  of  the  flames.  A  limp  flannel  dressing-gown  of  orange 
hue,  and  an  orange  silk  handkerchief  in  the  shape  of  a  tight 
turban,  formed  his  costume  during  this  rite.  But  no  knight 
of  old  (poet's  delineation)  was  ever  influenced  by  a  more  del 
icate  sense  of  honor  than  was  this  flannel-draped  little  cava 
lier  of  Gracias,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  his  room,  keeping 
his  eyes  turned  away  from  the  hearth  until  the  dying  light 
told  him  that  nothing  was  left  but  ashes. 

Then  he  sat  down  and  meditated.  If  he  should  make  up 
his  mind  to  speak  to  Winthrop,  there  must  be  of  course 
some  mention  of  Garda,  even  if  but  a  word.  To  the  Doc 
tor's  sense  it  was  supremely  better  that  there  should  be  no 
mention.  There  was  no  reason  for  mentioning  her  on  her 
own  account — not  the  slightest;  it  was  on  account  of  Lu- 
cian.  Yes,  Lucian  !  If  he  had  met  that  young  man  in  the 
woods,  or  if  he  had  found  him  at  Madam  Giron's,  he  could 
not  tell;  he  might — he  might —  And  now,  in  case  he  did 
not  speak  to  Winthrop,  Lucian  would  escape,  he  would  escape 
all  reckoning  for  his  misdeeds,  a  thing  which  seemed  to  the 
Doctor  insupportable !  Still,  he  was  gone,  his  place  among 
them  was  safely  empty  at  last;  and  here  the  thinker  could 
not  but  realize  that  it  was  better  for  everybody  that  the  place 
should  be  empty  from  a  voluntary  departure  than  from  one 
which  might  have  resounded  through  the  State,  and  been 
termed  perhaps  —  involuntary!  And  with  a  flush  of  con 
scious  color  over  his  own  past  heat,  the  fiery  little  gentleman 
sought  his  bed. 

The  next  morning  it  was  discovered  that  Mrs.  Harold's 
headache  had  meant  an  attack  of  fever.  The  fever  was  not 
severe,  but  it  kept  her  confined  to  her  bed  for  eight  days; 
Mrs.  Carew  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  household,  and 
Mrs.  Carew's  dear  Katrina  had  a  course  of  severer  mental 
discipline  than  she  had  been  afflicted  with  for  many  months, 
finding  herself  desperately  uncomfortable  every  hour  without 
Margaret  and  Margaret's  supervision  of  affairs. 

Garda  did  all  she  could  for  Margaret.  But  there  was 
something  in  illness  that  was  extremely  strange  to  her;  she 
had  never  been  ill  for  a  moment  in  all  her  recollection ;  and 


EAST  ANGELS.  373 

her  delicate  little  mother  had  held  illness  at  bay  for  herself 
by  sheer  force  of  determination  all  her  life,  until  the  very 
last.  Though  Garda,  therefore,  could  not  be  called  a  good 
nurse,  she  was  at  least  an  affectionate  one ;  she  came  in  often, 
though  she  did  not  stay  long,  and  she  was  so  radiant  with 
life  and  health  when  she  did  come  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
weary  woman  who  looked  at  her  from  the  pillow  must  im 
bibe  some  vigor  from  the  mere  sight  of  her. 

The  fever  was  soon  subdued  by  Dr.  Kirby's  prompt  rem 
edies.  But  Margaret's  strength  came  back  but  slowly,  so 
slowly  that  Mrs.  Rutherford  "  could  not  understand  it;" 
Aunt  Katrina  never  "understood"  anything  that  interfered 
with  her  comfort.  However,  on  the  eleventh  day  her  niece 
came  in  to  see  her  for  a  few  moments,  looking  white  and 
shadowy,  it  is  true,  but  quite  herself  in  every  other  way ;  on 
the  fourteenth  day  she  took  her  place  again  at  the  head  of 
the  house,  and  Betty,  with  her  endless  kind-heartedness  and 
her  disreputable  old  carpet-bag,  with  a  lion  pictured  on  its 
sides,  no  lock,  and  its  handles  tied  together  with  a  piece  of 
string,  returned  to  her  home. 

That  night — it  was  the  7th  of  January — there  was  a  great 
storm  ;  a  high  wind  from  the  north,  with  torrents  of  rain. 
Mrs.  Rutherford,  having,  as  she  complained,  "nothing  to 
amuse  her,"  had  fallen  asleep  just  before  it  began,  and, 
strange  to  say,  slept  through  it  all.  When  she  said  she  had 
"  nothing,"  she  meant  "  nobody,"  and  her  "  nobody  "  was  Dr. 
Reginald.  For  the  Doctor  was  not  at  East  Angels  that  night ; 
he  had  remained  there  constantly  through  the  first  five  days 
of  Margaret's  illness,  and  he  now  felt  that  he  must  give  some 
time  to  his  patients  in  Gracias.  Winthrop  also  was  absent. 

For  to  the  astonishment  and  indignation  of  Betty,  Win 
throp  had  started  early  on  Christmas  morning  on  a  journey 
up  the  St.  John's  River;  when  she  and  Garda  had  come  in 
to  breakfast  he  was  not  there,  and  Dr.  Kirby,  entering  later, 
had  informed  them  that  Telano  had  given  him  a  note  which 
said  that  he  (Winthrop)  had  suddenly  decided  to  take  this 
excursion  immediately,  instead  of  waiting  until  the  1st  of 
February,  his  original  date. 

"  Suddenly  decided— I  should  think  so  !"  said  Betty.  "  Be 
tween  bedtime  and  daylight — that's  all.  And  on  Christmas 


374  EAST  ANGELS. 

morning  too  !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing !  Lucian  went 
off  on  Christmas-eve.  All  the  men  have  gone  mad."  But 
here  her  attention  was  turned  by  the  entrance  of  Celestine 
with  the  tidings  of  Margaret's  fever. 

Before  he  had  joined  the  ladies  at  the  breakfast-table  that 
morning,  the  Doctor,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  had  been 
out.  lie  had  been  greatly  startled  by  Winthrop's  note,  which 
Telano  had  brought  to  him  as  soon  as  he  was  up ;  hurrying 
his  dressing,  he  had  hastened  forth  to  make  inquiries.  The 
note  had  stated  that  its  writer  was  going  to  the  Indian  River. 
But  the  Doctor  did  not  believe  in  this  story  of  the  Indian 
River.  He  learned  that  Winthrop  had  started  at  six  o'clock, 
driving  his  own  horses  (he  had  a  pair  besides  his  saddle- 
horse),  and  taking  his  man  Tom,  who  was  to  bring  the  horses 
back.  The  Doctor  began  to  make  estimates  :  Lucian  had  got 
off  about  eight  the  evening  before,  he  was  therefore  ten  hours 
in  advance  of  Winthrop ;  still,  if  he  had  been  kept  waiting 
at  the  river  (and  the  steamers  were  often  hours  behind  time), 
Winthrop,  with  his  fast  horses,  might  reach  the  landing  be 
fore  he  (Lucian)  had  left.  In  any  case  Winthrop  could  fol 
low  him  by  the  next  boat ;  the  Doctor  had  visions  of  his  fol 
lowing  him  all  the  way  to  New  Orleans ! 

How  it  was  possible  that  Winthrop  could  have  known  of 
an  intention  of  Garda's  which  she  had  not  carried  out  (for  of 
course  it  was  that  intention  which  had  made  him  follow  Lu 
cian),  how  it  was  possible  that  Winthrop  could  have  known 
of  a  note  which  he  himself  had  reduced,  unread,  to  ashes  upon 
his  own  hearth,  the  Doctor  did  not  stop  to  ask ;  neither  did 
he  stop  to  reflect  that  if  Winthrop  had  been  bent  upon  fol 
lowing  Lucian,  it  was  probable  that  he  would  have  started  at 
once,  instead  of  waiting  uselessly  ten  hours.  He  prescribed 
for  Margaret ;  then  he  rode  hastily  over  to  Madam  Giron's  to 
make  further  inquiries. 

The  horse  and  wagon  that  had  taken  Lucian  across  the 
country  had  returned,  and  the  negro  boy  who  had  acted  as 
driver  said  that  Mr.  Spenser  had  not  been  delayed  at  all  at 
the  landing;  the  Volusia  was  lying  there  when  they  drove 
up,  and  Mr.  Spenser  had  gone  on  board  immediately,  and 
then,  five  minutes  later,  the  boat  had  started  on  her  course 
down  the  river — that  is,  northward.  But,  in  spite  of  this  in- 


EAST  ANGELS.  375 

telligencc,  the  Doctor  remained  a  prey  to  restlessness;  lie  bat 
tled  all  day  with  Margaret's  fever,  almost  in  a  fever  himself; 
he  was  constantly  thinking  that  he  heard  the  gallop  of  a 
messenger's  horse  coming  to  summon  him  somewhere ;  bat 
nothing  came,  save,  late  in  the  afternoon,  Winthrop's  own 
horses,  and  they  went  modestly  round  to  the  stables  without 
pausing.  The  Doctor  went  out  to  see  Tom. 

Tom  said  that  his  master  had  been  obliged  to  wait  two 
hours  at  the  landing;  he  had  then  taken  the  slow  old  Her- 
nando  when  she  touched  there  on  her  way  up  the  river,  go 
ing,  of  course,  southward.  The  Doctor  went  off  to  the  gar 
den,  and  walked  up  and  down  with  a  rapid  step;  he  was 
passing  through  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  He  knew  those  two 
boats  and  their  routes,  he  knew  that  one  had  as  certainly 
taken  Lucian  northward  as  that  the  other  had  carried  Evert 
Winthrop  in  precisely  the  opposite  direction.  And  this  was 
not  a  country  of  railways,  neither  man  could  make  a  rapid 
detour  or  retrace  his  steps  by  train ;  there  was  only  the  river 
and  the  same  deliberate  boats  upon  which  they  were  already 
voyaging — in  opposite  directions  !  He  was  relieved,  of  course 
(he  kept  assuring  himself  of  this),  that  there  was  to  be  no 
encounter  between  the  two  men.  But  he  could  not  keep 
back  a  feeling  of  anger  against  himself — hot,  contemptuous 
anger — for  ever  having  supposed  for  one  moment  that  there 
could  be ;  could  be— with  Evert  Winthrop  for  one  of  the 
men  !  Or,  for  that  matter,  with  Lucian  Spenser  for  the  oth 
er.  The  present  generation  was  a  very  poor  affair;  he  was 
glad,  at  least,  that  nobody  could  say  he  belonged  to  it.  And 
then  the  Doctor,  who  did  not  know  himself  exactly  what  it 
was  he  wanted,  kicked  a  fragment  of  coquina  out  of  his  path 
so  vindictively  that  it  flew  half-way  across  the  garden,  and, 
taking  out  his  handkerchief,  he  rubbed  his  hot,  disappointed 
face  furiously.  Since  then  a  letter  had  come  from  Winthrop  ; 
he  was  hunting  on  the  Indian  River. 

When,  therefore,  the  storm  broke  over  East  Angels  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  upon  which  Margaret  had  taken  again 
the  reins  of  the  household,  she  and  Garda  were  alone.  After 
her  visit  to  Mrs.  Rutherford,  whom  she  had  found  quietly 
sleeping,  with  Celestine  keeping  watch  beside  her,  Margaret 
came  back  to  the  drawing-room,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 


376  EAST  ANGELS. 

Garda  had  made  a  great  blaze  of  light-wood  on  the  hearth, 
so  that  the  room  was  aglow  with  the  brilliant  flame  ;  she  was 
sitting  on  the  rug  looking  at  it,  and  she  had  drawn  forward 
a  large,  deep  arm-chair  for  Margaret. 

"I  am  pretending  it's  a  winter  night  at  the  North,"  she 
said,  "and  that  you  and  I  have  drawn  close  to  the  fire  because 
it's  so  cold.  Come  and  sit  down.  I  wonder  if  you're  really 
well  enough  to  be  up,  Margaret?" 

"  I  am  perfectly  well,"  Margaret  answered,  sinking  into  the 
chair  and  looking  at  the  blaze. 

The  rain  dashed  against  the  window-panes,  the  wind  whis 
tled.  "  Isn't  it  like  the  North  ?"  demanded  Garda. 

Margaret  shook  her  head.  "  Too  many  roses."  The  room 
was  full  of  roses. 

"  They  might  have  come  from  a  conservatory,"  Garda  sug 
gested. 

"It  isn't  like  it,"  said  Margaret,  briefly. 

"  Margaret,  what  did  you  say  to  Lucian  ?  It's  two  whole 
weeks;  and  this  is  the  very  first  chance  I've  had  to  ask 
you  !" 

Margaret's  face  contracted  for  an  instant,  as  though  from 
a  sudden  pain.  "  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said  ;  "  you  have  had  to 
wait." 

"  You  don't  want  to  talk  about  it — is  that  it  ?"  said  Garda, 
who  had  noticed  this.  "  Because  you  think  it  was  so  dread 
ful  for  me  to  be  going  there  ?" 

Margaret  did  not  tell  what  she  thought  on  this  point.  "  Of 
course  you  want  to  know  what  I  said,"  she  answered.  "  For 
one  thing,  I  said  nothing  whatever  about  you,  I  made  no  al 
lusion  to  your  proposed  meeting  at  the  pool,  or — " 

"  That's  fortunate,  since  Lucian  knew  nothing  about  it." 

"  Nothing  about  it  ?     Didn't  you  ask  him  in  your  note — " 

"  He  never  got  the  note.  I've  been  thinking  about  it,  and 
I'm  convinced  of  that.  I'll  tell  you  afterwards  ;  please  go  on 
now  about  what  you  said." 

"  I  said  as  little  as  I  could,  I  had  no  desire  for  a  long 
conversation.  I  told  Mr.  Spenser  that  it  would  be  well  if 
he  could  start  immediately,  as  I  had  reason  to  fear  that  Dr. 
Kirby,  who,  as  he  knew,  had  many  old-fashioned  ideas,  might 
think  it  necessary  to  come  over,  and  take  him  to  task  in — in 


EAST  ANGELS.  377 

various  ways.  It  would  be  better,  of  course,  to  avoid  so  ab 
surd  a  proceeding." 

"And  then  did  he  go?" 

"Yes.  He  said,  'Anything  you  think  best,  Mrs.  Harold, 
of  course,' and  made  his  preparations  immediately." 

"Didn't  he  ask  any  questions?" 

"  No ;  as  I  told  you,  I  had  no  desire  to  talk,  and  I  presume 
lie  saw  it.  I  waited  until  he  was  ready,  and  it  was  time  to 
call  Cajo  and  order  the  wagon;  then  I  slipped  out  through 
one  of  the  long  windows  on  the  east  side  of  the  house,  as  I 
didn't  care  to  have  the  servants  see  me.  I  went  through  the 
grove  that  skirts  the  water,  and  as  I  came  into  the  main  ave 
nue  again,  just  at  the  gate,  the  wagon  passed  me,  and  he  was 
in  it;  he  did  not  see  me,  as  I  had  stepped  back  among 
the  trees  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  wheels.  Then  I  came 
home." 

"  Yes — and  went  to  bed  and  had  a  fever!" 

"  It's  over  now." 

"Didn't  Lucian  think  it  odd — your  coming?"  Garda  went 
on. 

"  Very  likely.     I  don't  know  what  he  thought." 

"And  you  don't  care,  I  suppose  you  mean.  Well,  Marga 
ret,  I  know  you  don't  think  there  was  any  real  danger ;  but 
I  can  assure  you  that  there  was.  You  may  call  Dr.  Kirby 
absurd.  But  absurd  or  not,  /  was  horribly  frightened  when 
I  saw  him  coming,  and  you  cannot  say  that  I  am  frightened 
easily ;  I  don't  think  there  is  any  doubt  as  to  what  he  would 
have  done  if  he  had  met  Lucian  !" 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you  about  that,  Garda,  though  I  con 
fess  that  for  a  moment,  when  I  first  came  upon  Mr.  Spenser 
at  the  door,  I  was  as  frightened  as  you  were.  But  it  didn't 
last,  there  was  no  ground  for  it." 

Garda  shook  her  head.     "  You  don't  understand — " 

"  Perhaps  I  don't,"  answered  Margaret,  with  rather  a  weary 
intonation.  "  If  Lucian  didn't  get  your  note,  where  is  it?" 

"  The  Doctor  got  it.  That  is  the  way  he  knew;  don't  you 
see?  Pablo  gave  it  to  him." 

"Pablo — the  servant  who  could  not  betray  you?" 

"  You  mean  that  for  sarcasm  ;  but  there's  no  cause,"  Garda 
answered.  "  Poor  old  Pablo  was  never  more  devoted  to  me, 


378  EAST  ANGELS. 

according  to  his  light,  than  when  he  went  to  the  Doctor ;  he 
knew  he  could  trust  the  Doctor  as  he  trusted  himself.  You 
don't  comprehend  our  old  servants,  Margaret ;  you  haven't 
an  idea  how  completely  they  identify  themselves  with  '  de 
fambly,'  as  they  call  it.  Well,  Pablo  didn't  tell  the  Doctor 
anything  in  actual  words,  and  in  fact  he  had  nothing  to  tell 
except '  the  eastern  path  ;'  I  told  him  that  myself,  you  remem 
ber.  I  presume  he  suggested  in  some  roundabout  way  that 
the  Doctor  should  take  an  evening  walk  through  that  espe 
cial  'nigh-cut.'"  And  Garda  laughed.  "And  of  course  he 
gave  him  the  note  —  nothing  less  than  that  would  have 
brought  the  Doctor  out  there  at  that  hour ;  Pablo  probably 
pretended  that  he  couldn't  take  the  note  himself  on  account 
of  his  rheumatism,  and  asked  the  Doctor  to  send  somebody 
else  with  it;  and  then  the  Doctor  said  he  would  take  it  him 
self.  And,  through  the  whole,  you  may  be  sure  that  neither 
of  them  made  the  very  least  allusion  to  me.  The  Doctor 
had  the  *  eastern  path' to  guide  him,  and  the  certainty  that  I 
had  written  to  Lucian — for  of  course  he  saw  the  address; 
with  that  he  started  off." 

"You  think  that  he  did  not  open  the  note?" 
"Open  it?     Nothing  could  have  made  him  open  it." 
"  But  he  is,  your  guardian,  and  as  such,  under  the  circum 
stances — n 

"  He  might  be  twenty  guardians,  and  under  a  thousand  cir 
cumstances,  and  he  would  never  do  it,"  said  Garda,  securely. 
"  I  presume  he  burned  it  just  as  it  was ;  I  have  no  doubt  he 
did.  Margaret,  I  wonder  if  you  remember  how  strange  and 
cold  you  were  to  me  that  night  when  you  came  home  ?  Of 
course  I  knew  that  the  Doctor  would  go  straight  back  to 
Madam  Giron's  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  me  safely  inside  my 
own  door,  and  I  couldn't  help  being  dreadfully  anxious.  I 
waited,  and  waited.  And  at  last  you  came.  But  you  were 
so  silent !  you  scarcely  spoke  to  me ;  you  wouldn't  tell  me 
anything  except  that  Lucian  was  safely  gone." 

"  I  couldn't ;  I  was  ill,"  Margaret  answered.  She  put  her 
hand  over  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  understood ;  or  if  I  didn't  that  night,  I  did  the 
next  morning,  when  the  fever  appeared.  You  are  a  wonder 
ful  woman,  Margaret,"  the  girl  went  on.  She  had  clasped 


EAST  ANGELS.  379 

her  hands  round  her  knees,  and  was  looking  at  the  blaze. 
"  How  you  did  go  and  do  that  for  me  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  when  you  hated  to,  so !  I  was  going  to  tell  you 
something  more,"  she  went  on.  "  But  I  don't  dare  to  ;  I  am 
afraid."  And  she  laughed. 

Margaret's  hand  dropped.  "  What  is  it  you  were  going  to 
say  ?"  She  sat  erect  now.  Her  eyes  showed  a  light  which 
appeared  like  apprehension. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  know  it  first,"  said  Garda,  her  gaze 
still  on  the  hearth.  "  Evert  is  coming  home  to-morrow,  and 
I  want  to  tell  you  beforehand :  I  am  going  to  break  my  en 
gagement.  I  don't  care  for  him  ;  why,  then,  should  I  stay 
engaged  ?" 

"You  mean  that  you  think  it's  wrong?" 

"I  mean  that  I  think  it's  tiresome.  I  have  only  let  it  go 
on  as  long  as  it  has  to  please  you ;  you  must  know  that.  I 
should  have  told  him  long  ago,  only  you  wouldn't  let  rne — 
don't  you  remember?  You  have  made  me  promise  twice  not 
to  tell  him." 

"Because  I  thought  you  would  come  to  your  senses." 

"  I  have  come  to  them — now  !  The  difficulty  with  you  is, 
Margaret,  that  you  think  it  will  hurt  him.  But  it  won't  hurt 
him  at  all,  he  doesn't  care  about  it.  He  never  did  really  care 
for  me  in  the  least." 

"And  if  you  don't  care  for  him,  as  you  say,  may  I  ask 
how  your  engagement  was  formed  ?" 

Garda  laughed.  "  I  don't  wonder  you  ask !  I'll  tell  yon, 
I  did  care  for  him  then.  For  some  time  before  that  night 
on  the  barren  I  had  been  thinking  about  him  more  and 
more,  and  I  ended  by  thinking  of  nothing  but  just  that  one 
idea  —  how  queer  it  would  be,  and  how — '•how  exciting,  if 
I  could  only  make  him  change  a  little ;  make  him  do  as  / 
wanted  him  to  do.  You  know  how  cool  he  is,  how  quiet; 
I  think  it  was  that  that  tempted  me,  I  wanted  to  see  if  I 
could.  And,  besides,  I  did  care  for  him  then ;  I  liked  him 
ever  so  much.  I  can't  imagine  what  has  become  of  the 
feeling  ;  but  it  was  certainly  there  at  the  time.  Well,  when 
you're  lost  on  a  barren  all  night,  everything's  different,  you 
can  say  what  you  feel.  And  that's  what  I  did ;  or  at  least 
I  let  him  see  it,  I  let  him  see  how  much  I  had  been  thinking 


380  EAST  ANGELS. 

about  him,  how  much  I  liked  him.  I  am  afraid  I  told  him 
in  so  many  words,"  added  the  girl,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"  I  only  say  '  afraid  '  on  your  account ;  on  my  own,  I  don't 
see  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  say  it  if  it  was  true." 

Then,  in  answer,  not  to  any  words  from  Margaret,  but  to 
some  slight  movement  of  hers,  "You  don't  believe  it,"  she 
went  on  ;  "  you  don't  believe  I  cared  for  him.  He  believed 
me,  at  any  rate;  he  couldn't  help  it!  At  that  moment  I 
cared  for  him  more  than  I  cared  for  anybody  in  the  world, 
and  he  saw  that  I  did  ;  it  was  easy  enough  to  see.  So  that 
was  the  way  of  it.  We  came  back  engaged.  And  I  did 
like  him  so  much! — isn't  it  odd?  I  thought  him  wonder 
ful.  I  don't  suppose  he  has  changed.  But  I  have.  He  is 
probably  wonderful  still ;  but  I  don't  care  about  him  any 
more.  And  that  is  what  I  cannot  understand — that  he  has 
not  seen  in  all  this  time  how  different  I  am,  has  not  seen 
how  completely  the  feeling,  whatever  it  was,  that  I  had  for 
him  has  gone.  It  seems  to  me  that  anybody  not  blind  ought 
to  have  seen  it  long  ago,  for  it  didn't  last  but  a  very  little 
while.  And  then,  too,  not  to  have  seen  it  since  Lucian  came 
back !" 

"  He  wouldn't  allow  himself  to  think  such  things  of  you." 

"  Now  you  are  angry  with  me,"  said  Garda,  not  turning 
her  head,  but  putting  up  one  hand  caressingly  on  Margaret's 
arm.  "  Why  should  you  be  angry  ?  What  have  I  done  but 
change?  Can  I  help  changing?  /don't  do  it;  it  does  itself; 
it  happens.  You  needn't  try  to  tell  me  that  one  love,  if  a 
true  one,  lasts  forever,  because  it's  nothing  of  the  kind. 
Look  at  second  marriages.  I  really  cared  for  Evert.  And 
now  I  don't  care  for  him.  But  I  don't  sec  that  I  am  to 
blame  for  either  the  one  or  the  other;  people  don't  care  for 
people  because  they  try  to,  but  because  it  comes  in  spite  of 
them  ;  and  it's  the  same  way  when  it  stops.  I  acknowledge, 
Margaret,  that  you  are  one  of  the  kind  to  care  once  and  for 
ever.  But  there  are  very  few  women  like  you,  I  am  sure." 

She  turned  as  she  said  this,  in  order  to  look  up  at  her 
friend ;  then  she  sprang  from  her  place  on  the  rug  and 
stood  beside  her,  her  attitude  was  almost  a  protecting  one. 
"Oh,"  she  said,  "how  I  hate  the  people  who  make  you  so 
unhappy !" 


EAST  ANGELS.  381 

"  No  one  does  that,"  said  Margaret.     She  rose. 

"  Are  }7ou  going  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  tired." 

"  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  keep  you,"  said  Garda,  regret 
fully.  "  Well, — it's  understood,  then,  that  I  tell  Evert  to 
morrow." 

Margaret,  who  was  going  towards  the  door,  stopped.  She 
waited  a  moment,  then  she  said — "  Even  if  you  break  the 
engagement,  Garda,  it  isn't  necessary  to  say  anything  about 
Lucian,  is  it? — this  feeling  that  you  think  you  have  for  him  ; 
I  wish  you  would  promise  me  not  to  speak  of  Lucian  at  all." 

"Think  I  have  !"  said  Garda.  "Know  is  the  word.  But 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  promise  you  that,  because,  don't  you  see" 
(here  she  came  to  her  friend,  who  was  standing  with  one 
hand  on  the  door) — "don't you  see  that  I  shall  have  to  speak 
of  Lucian  ? — I  shall  have  to  say  how  much  I  like  him.  Be 
cause,  after  what  I  let  Evert  think  that  night  on  the  barrens, 
nothing  less  will  convince  him  that  I  don't  care  for  him  any 
more,  that  I've  got  over  it.  For  he  believed  me  then — as 
well  he  might!  and  he  has  never  stopped  believing.  And 
he  never  will  stop — he  wouldn't  know  how — until  I  tell  him 
in  so  many  words  that  I  adore  somebody  else ;  perhaps  he 
will  stop  then  ;  he  knew  what  it  was  when  I  adored  him.'1'' 

Margaret  looked  at  her  without  speaking. 

"  Dear  me !  Margaret,  don't  hate  me,"  said  Garda,  aban 
doning  her  presentation  of  the  case  and  clinging  in  distress 
to  her  friend. 

"  Promise  me  at  least  not  to  tell  Evert  anything  about 
that  last  afternoon  before  Lucian  left — your  plan  for  meet 
ing  him  at  the  pool,  your  going  on  towards  the  house  and 
coming  upon  me,  our  seeing  Dr.  Kirby,  and  your  fear — in 
short,  all  that  happened.  Promise  me  faithfully." 

"  I  suppose  I  can  promise  that,  if  you  care  about  it.  But 
you  mustn't  hate  me,  Margaret." 

"  What  makes  you  think  I  hate  you  ?"  asked  Margaret, 
forcing  a  smile. 

"A  look  'way  back  in  your  eyes,"  Garda  answered,  the 
tears  shining  in  her  own. 

"  Never  mind  about  looks  'way  back ;  take  those  that  are 
nearer  the  front,"  responded  Margaret.  She  drew  herself 


EAST  ANGELS. 


away,  opened  the  door,  and  went  down  the  hall  towards  her 
own  room. 

Garda  followed  her.  But  at  her  door  Margaret  stopped  • 
"  Good-night,"  she  said. 

"  Are  you  going  to  shut  yourself  up?  Mayn't  I  go  through 
your  room  to  mine?  Mayn't  I  have  the  door  open  between!" 
said  Garda.  "  I'm  so  afraid  of  the  storm  !"  The  rain  was 
still  beating  against  the  windows,  the  wind  was  now  a  gale. 
"  I  shall  keep  thinking  of  the  sea." 

"  The  sound  of  the  storm  is  as  loud  in  my  room  as  in 
yours." 

"  Well,  I  won't  tease,"  said  Garda ;  "  I  see  you  want  to  be 
alone."  She  kissed  her  friend,  and  went  mournfully  down 
the  hall  towards  her  own  door.  Then  her  mood  seemed  to 
change,  for  she  called  back,  "  I  shall  keep  my  lamp  burnino- 
all  night,  then." 

This  was  a  small  hanging  lamp  of  copper,  of  which  Garda 
was  very  fond.  It  had  once  been  thinly  coated  over  with 
silver,  and  it  had  every  appearance  of  having  been  made  to 
hang  before  a  shrine ;  there  was  a  tradition,  indeed,  that 
though  it  had  been  at  East  Angels  longer  than  even  the  Old 
Madam  could  remember,  it  had  come  originally  from  that 
East  Mission  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels  which  had  given 
the  Duero  house  its  name ;  the  lamp  'remained,  though  the 
little  coquina  shrine,  built  for  the  red-skins,  had  vanished. 

Kaquel  knew  how  to  make  a  particular  kind  of  oil,  highly 
perfumed  with  fragrant  gums;  she  made  this,  in  small  quan 
tities  at  a  time,  for  Garda,  who  burned  it  in  this  lamp  in  her 
own  room,  and  greatly  enjoyed  the  aromatic  odor  it  gave  out. 
Margaret  had  remonstrated  with  her  for  the  fancy.  "  I  can 
not  think  it  is  wholesome,"  she  said,  "  to  sleep  in  such  a 
heavily  perfumed  atmosphere." 

"  I  sleep  a  great  deal  better  in  it  than  I  ever  do  in  your 
plain,  thin,  whitewashed  sort  of  air,"  Garda  had  responded, 
laughing. 

to-night,  after  lighting  her  candle,  she  lighted  this  lamp 
also. 

"  It's  burning !"  she  said,  calling  through  the  closed  door 
between  their  two  rooms  with  childlike  defiance.  But  she 
got  no  answer. 


EAST  ANGELS. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THAT  same  evening  Evert  Wintlirop  was  watching  the 
storm  on  the  St.  John's  River.  It  had  begun  to  darken  the 
north-western  sky  before  sunset;  rising  higher  and  higher,  at 
length  it  had  come  sweeping  down  the  broad  stream.  First 
the  broken  lurid  edge  (like  little  puffs  of  white  smoke)  of 
the  blackness  that  followed  behind;  and  that  was  the  wind. 
Then  the  blackness  itself,  pierced  here  and  there  by  light 
ning.  Then,  last,  in  perpendicular  columns  extending  from 
the  sky  to  the  smooth  water  below  (water  that  had  been 
pressed  flat  by  wind  that  had  gone  on  before),  the  rain  fall 
ing  straight  downward  densely  and  softly ;  the  line  across 
the  river  made  by  the  advancing  drops  on  one  side  and  the 
smooth  water  which  they  had  not  yet  reached  on  the  other, 
was  as  distinct  as  one  made  across  a  piece  of  velvet  when 
one  half  of  its  nap  has  been  turned  sharply  back,  while  the 
other  remains  undisturbed. 

The  old  white  house,  once  a  private  residence,  where  Win 
tlirop  was  spending  the  night,  was  now  a  reluctant  hotel; 
that  is,  inmates  were  received  there,  and  allowed  to  find  their 
way  about,  to  sit  round  a  brilliant  light-wood  fire  on  the 
broad  hearth  of  the  pleasant  old  parlor  on  cold  evenings,  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine  on  the  piazzas  during  the  day,  or  wander 
under  the  magnificent  trees,  which,  draped  in  silver  moss, 
formed  long  avenues  on  the  river -bank  north  and  south. 
They  were  also  allowed  to  partake  of  food  in  the  dining- 
room,  where  the  mistress  of  the  house,  a  dignified  old  lady, 
poured  out  her  coffee  herself  at  the  head  of  her  table,  the 
cups  being  carried  about  by  half-grown  negro  boys,  whose 
appearance  was  not  in  the  least  an  indication  of  the  quali 
ty  of  the  beverage,  that  quality  being  excellent.  This  old 
house,  when  it  had  thus  changed  itself,  rather  half-heartedly, 
into  a  hotel  after  the  war,  had  been  obliged  to  put  out  a 
dock;  a  sign  it  could  dispense  with;  it  could  dispense  with 
many  things;  but  an  inn  of  any  sort  it  could  not  be  on  the 


384  EAST  ANGELS. 

St.  John's  without  a  dock,  since  the  river  was  the  highway, 
and  its  wide  shallows  near  shore  made  it  necessary  for  the 
steamers  to  land  their  passengers  far  out  in  the  stream.  All 
these  "docks"  on  the  St.  John's  were  in  reality  long  narrow 
piers,  formed  by  spiles  driven  into  the  bed  of  the  stream, 
over  whose  tops  planks  had  been  nailed  down ;  and  if  a 
plank  was  missing  here  and  there,  was  it  not  always  easy  to 
jump  over? 

Near  the  end  of  the  pier  belonging  to  Winthrop's  pres 
ent  abode  there  was  a  little  building  about  six  feet  square. 
This  was  the  United  States  post-office ;  any  one  who  should 
doubt  its  official  character,  had  only  to  look  at  the  legal 
notices  written  in  ink  and  tightly  tacked  up  on  the  outside. 
Generally  these  notices  had  been  so  blurred  by  the  rain  that 
all  the  "men"  who  were  required  to  "know"  the  various 
matters  written  underneath  by  this  proclamation  thereof, 
could  have  made  out  a  good  defence  for  themselves  in  case 
of  prosecution  for  failure  to  comply,  since  how  could  thev 
"  know  "  what  they  could  not  decipher  ?  But  even  if  the 
notices  had  been  printed  in  fairest  type,  it  is  hardly  probable 
that  the  inhabitants  would  have  "  known  "  them  any  better ; 
they  had  always  hunted  and  fished  wherever  and  whenever 
they  pleased ;  it  was  not  likely  that  a  piece  of  paper  tacked 
up  on  a  shanty  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out  in  the  St.  John's  was 
going  to  change  these  rights  now.  The  only  proclamation 
they  felt  any  interest  in  was  that  which  offered  bounties  for 
the  scalps  of  wild-cats,  a  time-honored  and  sensible  ordinance, 
by  which  a  little  money  could  always  be  secured. 

Winthrop  had  come  down  the  river  that  afternoon ;  his 
steamer  had  left  him  here,  as  she  did  not  touch  at  the  Gra- 
eias  landing,  which  was  farther  down-stream  on  the  opposite 
shore ;  the  next  morning  a  boat  would  pass  which  did  touch 
there,  he  must  wait  for  that.  The  steamer  that  brought  him 
had  also  brought  the  United  States  mails  from  the  up-river 
country ;  the  postmaster,  a  silent  man  in  a  'coon-skin  cap, 
received  the  bag  with  dignity ;  Winthrop  watched  the  dis 
tribution  of  its  contents;  one  limp  yellow-enveloped  letter 
and  a  coffee-pot.  When  he  came  down  to  the  pier's  end 
again  at  sunset  the  'coon  -  skin  -  crowned  official  had  gone 
home ;  but,  in  a  friendly  spirit,  he  had  left  the  post-office 


EAST  ANGELS.  385 

unlocked — there  was  a  chair  there  which  some  one  might 
like  to  borrow.  Winthrop  borrowed  it  now — of  the  United 
States;  he  brought  it  outside  and  sat  there  alone,  watching 
the  approach  of  the  storm.  The  beautiful  river  with  its 
clear  brown  water  lay  before  him,  wide  as  a  lake ;  on  the 
opposite  shore  the  soft  foliage  of  palmettoes,  like  great 
ostrich  plumes,  rose  against  the  sky.  But  he  was  not  think 
ing  of  the  river,  he  was  not  even  thinking  of  the  black  cloud, 
though  his  eyes  were  apparently  fixed  upon  it;  he  did  not 
stir  until  the  wind  was  fairly  upon  him,  then  he  retreated  to 
the  post-office,  placed  his  chair  inside,  and  sat  there  under 
cover  at  the  open  door.  For  a  moment  he  did  think  of  the 
storm,  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  little  house  over  him  would  be 
carried  off  the  pjer,  and  sent  floating  up  the  stream  like  a 
miniature  ark ;  but  after  the  wind  had  passed  on,  his  mind 
returned  to  the  old  subject,  the  subject  which  had  engrossed 
him  ever  since  he  left  East  Angels  fourteen  days  before. 

His  brief  letters  had  stated  that  he  was  hunting,  fishing, 
and  sailing,  that  he  had  been  through  the  Dummit  orange 
grove.  It  was  true  that  he  had  been  engaged  in  all  the  ways 
he  described,  and  it  was  probable  also  that  his  various  guides 
and  chance  companions  had  not  perceived  any  lack  of  inter 
est,  or  at  least  of  energy,  in  the  northerner  who  had  accom 
panied  them ;  an  active  life  was  necessary  to  Winthrop,  and 
never  more  necessary  than  when  he  was  perplexed  or  trou 
bled  ;  not  once  during  those  two  weeks  had  he  sat  down  to 
brood,  as  he  was  apparently  brooding  now. 

But  though  he  had  thus  occupied  himself  from  daylight 
to  bedtime,  though  he  had  talked  and  listened  to  the  talk  of 
others,  there  had  been  always  this  under-consciousness,  which 
had  not  left  him.  At  times  the  consciousness  had  taken 
form,  if  not  in  actual  words,  then  at  least  in  thoughts  and 
arguments  that  followed  each  other  connectedly.  General 
ly,  however,  it  had  been  but  a  dull  realization,  like  an  ache, 
vivified  at  intervals  by  sudden  heats  of  anger,  which,  he  was 
sure — though  he  might  be  talking  on  other  subjects  at  the 
moment  —  must  bring  the  color  to  his  face.  Man-like,  he 
preferred  the  anger,  it  was  better  than  the  ache ;  he  should 
have  liked  to  be  angry  all  the  time. 

The  ache  and  the  anger  had  been  caused  by  what  he  had 
25 


386  EAST  ANGELS. 

with  Ins  own  eyes  beheld,  namely,  the  secret  visit  of  Mar 
garet  to  Lucian  Spenser.  For  it  was  secret.  Lucian  had 
said  good-by  to  her  before  them  all,  it  had  been  left  clearly 
to  be  supposed  that  they  were  not  to  see  each  other  again ; 
this,  then,  had  been  a  clandestine  meeting.  Margaret  was 
no  school-girl,  she  was  not  ignorant  of  the  rules  of  the  world. 
And  she  was  not  an  exception,  like  Garda  Thome,  full  of 
sudden  impulses,  with  an  extraordinary  openness  in  follow 
ing  them  ;  he  had  never  thought  Margaret  impulsive  in  the 
least.  Yet  there  she  was ;  she  had  slipped  away  without 
the  knowledge  of  any  one,  to  go  over  to  that  solitary  house 
for  a  farewell  interview  with  its  occupant.  Of  course  her 
being  there  at  that  last  moment,  woman  of  deliberate  inten 
tions  as  she  was,  proved  that  an  acquaintance  which  she  had 
not  acknowledged  existed  between  them ;  for  she  had  never 
shown  any  especial  interest  in  Lucian  in  the  presence  of 
others ;  on  the  contrary,  she  had  appeared  indifferent  to  him, 
she  had  acted  a  part ;  they  had  both  acted  a  part,  and  they 
had  acted  it  so  well  that  he  (Winthrop)  had  never  once  sus 
pected  them.  A  wrath  rose  within  him  as  he  thought  of 
this. 

lie  had  always  disapproved  of  Margaret  in  one  way ;  but 
at  least — so  he  kept  telling  himself — at  least  he  had  thought 
her  entirely  without  traits  of  this  kind.  He  had  thought 
her  cold ;  but  he  had  thought,  too,  that  she  had  principles, 
and  strong  ones.  It  was  probably  her  principles,  more  than 
anything  else,  that  had  made  her  leave  Lanse  in  the  begin 
ning;  she  might  even  be  said  to  have  been  something  of  a 
martyr  to  them,  because,  with  her  regard  for  appearances, 
she  would  have  infinitely  preferred,  of  course,  to  have  re 
mained  under  the  same  roof  with  Lanse,  had  it  been  possi 
ble,  to  have  avoided  the  comment  which  is  roused  by  any 
long  separation  between  a  husband  and  wife,  even  though 
but  that  comparatively  mild  degree  of  it  which  follows  a 
separation  as  carefully  guarded  and  as  undefined  in  duration 
as  hers  had  been.  For  nothing  was  ever  said  about  its  being 
a  permanent  one;  people  might  conclude,  and  they  easily 
did  conclude,  that  before  long  they  should  see  Lansing  Har 
old  back  again,  and  established  somewhere  with  his  wife  as 
docilely  as  though  he  had  never  been  away;  this  had  hap- 


EAST  ANGELS.  387 

pened  in  a  number  of  cases  when  the  separation  had  been 
even  longer.  Europe  was  full  of  American  wives  spending 
winters  here  and  summers  there,  wives  whose  husbands  had 
remained  at  home ;  it  might  almost  be  called  an  American 
method  for  infusing  freshness  into  the  matrimonial  atmos 
phere,  for  of  course  they  would  be  doubly  glad  to  see  each 
other,  all  these  parted  ones,  when  the  travels  should  at  last 
be  over,  and  the  hearth-fire  re-established  again.  In  this  in 
stance  it  was  the  husband  who  had  gone.  And  in  the  mean 
while  how  well-ordered  was  the  life  led  by  Mrs.  Harold! 
there  was  not,  there  never  could  be,  a  breath  of  reproach 
or  comment  concerning  her. 

Thus  the  world.  And  the  world's  opinion  had  been  Win- 
throp's  in  so  far  that  he  had  fully  shared  its  belief  in  the  ir- 
reproachableness  of  Margaret's  life  as  regards  what  is  some 
times  defined  as  "  a  taste  for  society,"  or,  arranged  in  another 
form,  as  "  a  love  of  gaycty,"  or,  with  more  frankness,  "  a  love 
of  admiration."  Of  course  he  had  approved  of  this.  But 
he  had  not  realized  how  deeply  he  had  approved  of  it  (un 
derneath  disapprovals  of  another  sort)  until  now,  when,  like 
a  thunder-clap,  the  revelation  had  come  upon  him  :  he  and 
the  world  had  been  mistaken !  This  Margaret,  with  her  fail- 
calm  face,  with  her  studiedly  quiet  life,  had  a  capacity  for 
the  profoundest  deceptions ;  she  had  deceived  them  all  with 
out  the  slightest  difficulty,  she  was  deceiving  them  now.  The 
very  completeness  with  which  she  had  disguised  her  liking 
for  Lucian  showed  what  an  actress  she  must  be ;  if  she  had 
allowed  her  liking  to  come  out  in  a  natural  way,  if  she  had 
even  let  it  be  known  that  she  intended  to  see  him  again,  in 
stead  of  going  through  that  form  of  bidding  him  good-by 
before  them  all,  it  would  have  had  another  aspect;  the  pres 
ent  one,  given  the  manner  she  had  always  maintained  with 
him  in  public,  and  given  the  fact  that  she  was  the  most  un- 
irnpulsive  of  women,  was  ominous.  In  the  moment  of  dis 
covery  it  had  given  him  a  sick  feeling, — -he  had  been  so  sure 
of  her ! 

The  sick  feeling  had  come  back  often  during  the  two 
weeks  that  followed.  Each  time  he  had  taken  himself  sharp 
ly  to  task  for  caring  so  much.  But  it  was  because  he  had 
cared  that  he  had  left  East  Angels. 


388  EAST  ANGELS. 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  wood,  staring  at  Madam  G iron's 
house  after  she  had  entered  it — as  it  seemed  to  him  drawn 
in  by  Lucian — his  first  feeling,  after  the  shock  of  surprise, 
had  been  one  of  indignation,  he  had  started  up  with  the  in 
tention  of  following  her.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had 
no  possible  authority  over  her,  even  though  she  was  his  cous 
in's  wife  ;  if  he  should  go  over  there  and  confront  her,  could 
she  not  very  well  turn  and  ask  him  what  any  of  it  was  to 
him?  It  would  make  a  scene  which  could  now  benefit  no 
one;  for  it  was  too  late  to  prevent  imprudences  on  her  part; 
and  with  Lucian  he  should  prefer  to  deal  alone.  Then,  in 
another  minute,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  in  any  case  endure 
seeing  her  openly  discomfited  ;  for  of  course  if  he  and  Lucian 
should  exchange  words  in  her  presence,  no  matter  how  few, 
it  would  amount  to  publicity  of  a  certain  sort,  publicity  which 
it  had  not  yet  attained.  At  present  Lucian  had  no  idea  that 
he,  Winthrop,  had  discovered  their  meeting ;  of  her  own  ac 
cord  Margaret  would  never  tell  him,  and  it  would  be  easier 
for  her  through  all  the  future  if  Lucian  should  never  know ; 
it  was  this  thought  that  made  him  go  homeward  instead  of 
crossing  the  field  to  Madam  Giron's,  it  drove  him  away.  It 
was  not  until  he  was  safe  in  his  own  room  that  his  vision 
grew  clearer,  that  he  remembered  that  he  need  not  have  been 
so  considerate  of  Margaret's  feelings,  since  (what  he  had  not 
thought  of  with  any  distinctness  in  the  first  shock  of  sur 
prise)  had  she  not  deliberately  braved  him  ?  For  she  had 
seen  him  sitting  there  when  she  passed  the  first  time,  he  had 
clearly  perceived  that  she  had  seen  him.  Yet,  knowing  that 
he  was  there,  she  had  passed  him  that  second  time  in  full 
view ;  she  had  crossed  the  field  knowing  that  he  could  see 
her  plainly,  had  met  Lucian  on  the  piazza  and  entered  the 
house  with  him,  without  the  least  attempt  at  concealment 
or  disguise.  It  was  true  that  no  one  else  had  seen  her.  But 
he  had  seen  her;  and  she  had  known  it,  and  had  not  cared. 

This  last  reflection  gave  his  mood  a  sharp  turn  in  the 
other  direction  ;  he  thought — he  thought  a  thousand  things. 
Chief  among  them  came  now  the  remembrance  that  he  should 
see  her  at  table,  she  would  be  obliged  to  appear  there,  she 
would  be  obliged  to  speak  to  him.  But  when  in  answer  to 
Telano's  summons  he  went  to  the  dining-room,  hardly  know- 


EAST  ANGELS.  389 

ing  how  he  should  bear  himself  towards  her,  she  was  not 
present ;  Garda  brought  word  that  she  was  suffering  from 
headache,  and  could  not  appear. 

That  night  Winthrop  was  awake  until  a  late  hour,  he  found 
himself  unable  to  sleep.  He  was  conscious  of  the  depth  of 
the  disturbance  that  swayed  him,  but  though  he  did  his  best 
to  conquer  it,  he  made  no  progress;  dawn  found  him  still 
under  its  influence.  He  decided  to  go  away  for  a  few  days ; 
he  had  been  shut  up  at  East  Angels  too  long,  the  narrow  lit 
tle  round  of  Gracias  life  was  making  him  narrow  as  well. 
The  evening  before,  he  had  felt  a  strong  wish  to  see  Marga 
ret,  to  note^how  she  would  appear ;  but  now  his  one  desire 
was  to  get  away  without  seeing  her,  if  possible.  Curiosity 
— if  curiosity  it  had  been — had  died  down  ;  in  its  place  was 
something  that  ached  and  throbbed,  which  he  did  not  care  to 
analyze  further. 

Lucian  had  really  gone  —  he  had  ascertained  that;  East 
Angels  was  therefore  safe  for  the  present,  as  far  as  he  was 
concerned.  Winthrop  remained  very  indifferent  to  Lucian 
personally,  even  now;  he  consigned  his  good  looks  to  the 
place  where  the  good  looks  of  a  strikingly  handsome  man 
are  generally  consigned  by  those  of  his  less  conspicuously 
endowed  brethren  who  come  in  contact  with  him,  and  he  felt 
that  immense  disgust  which  men  of  his  nature  are  apt  to  feel 
in  such  cases,  with  no  corresponding  realization,  perhaps,  of 
the  effect  which  has  been  observed  to  be  produced  sometimes 
by  —  item,  a  pair  of  long-lashed  eyes;  item,  a  pink  young 
cheek  ;  item,  a  soft  dimpled  arm — upon  even  the  most  in 
flexible  of  mankind.  No,  he  did  not  care  about  Lucian.  He 
said  to  himself  that  if  it  had  not  been  Lucian,  it  would  have 
been  somebody  else ;  he  made  himself  say  that. 

Now,  as  he  sat  there  at  the  end  of  the  long  pier,  with  the 
dense  rain  falling  all  round  him,  he  went  over  again  in  his 
own  mind  all  these  things.  Two  states  of  feeling  had  grad 
ually  become  more  absorbing  than  the  rest ;  one  of  these  was 
a  deep  dumb  anger  against  Margaret  for  the  indifference  with 
which  she  had  treated  him,  was  still  treating  him.  What 
rank  must  he  hold  in  her  mind,  then  ? — one  which  could  leave 
her  so  untroubled  as  to  his  opinion  of  her.  WThat  estimation 
must  she  have  of  him  that  made  her  willing  to  brave  him  in 


390  EAST  ANGELS. 

this  way  ?  She  had  not  written  during;  his  absence,  express 
ing — or  disguising — apprehension  ;  making  excuses  ;  she  had 
not  even  written  (a  woman's  usual  trick)  to  say  that  she 
knew  it  was  not  necessary  to  write,  that  she  was  safe  with 
him,  and  that  she  only  wrote  now  to  assure  him  that  she  felt 
this.  Was  he  such  a  nonentity  in  every  way  that  she  could 
remain  unconcerned  as  to  any  fear  of  danger  from  him  ?  Did 
she  suppose  him  incapable  of  action  ? — too  unimportant  to 
reckon  with,  too  unimportant  to  trouble,  even  if  he  should 
try,  the  well-arranged  surface  of  her  unperturbed  life?  Very 
possibly  she  might  not  like  him,  but  he  was  at  least  a  man ; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  she  ought  to  have  some  regard  for 
any  man's  opinion  ;  even  some  fear  of  it,  in  a  case  of  this 
kind. 

Yes,  he  was  very  angry.     And  he  knew  that  he  was. 

Then,  adding  itself  to  this  anger,  there  came  always  a  sec 
ond,  came  against  his  will ;  this  was  a  burning  resentment 
against  her  personally,  for  falling  so  far  below  the  idea  he 
had  had  of  her.  He  had  thought  her  narrow,  self-righteous, 
— yes;  but  he  had  also  thought  her  life  in  other  respects  as 
pellucid  (and  cold)  as  a  mountain  brook  ;  one  of  those  brooks, 
if  one  wanted  a  comparison,  that  flow  through  the  high  val 
leys  of  the  Alps,  clear,  cold,  and  dreary  ;  he  had  had  time  to 
make  comparisons  in  abundance,  if  that  were  any  entertain 
ment! 

But  it  was  not.  And  he  found  it  impossible,  too,  to  think 
of  Margaret  in  any  other  than  this  his  first  way ;  the  second, 
in  spite  of  what  he  had  with  his  own  eyes  beheld,  remained 
unreal,  phantasmagoric.  This  seemed  to  him  folly,  and  he 
was  now  going  back  to  East  Angels  to  break  it  up  ;  it  would 
break  it  up  to  find  her  defiant.  And  it  would  amount  to 
defiance — her  looking  at  him  and  talking  to  him  without 
giving  any  sign,  no  matter  how  calmly  or  even  timidly  she 
might  do  it;  in  his  actual  presence  perhaps  she  would  be 
timid.  In  all  cases,  in  any  case,  he  now  wished  to  see  her; 
the  desire  to  find  himself  face  to  face  with  her  had  taken 
possession  of  him  again. 

He  reached  East  Angels  the  next  day  at  two  o'clock. 
Betty  Carew  was  the  first  to  greet  him,  she  had  herself  ar 
rived  from  Gracias  only  an  hour  before.  She  was  full  of  the 


EAST   ANGELS.  391 

intelligence  she  brought,  and  immediately  repeated  it  to  the 
new-comer:  Mr.  Moore  had  that  morning  received  a  letter, 
or  rather  a  note  of  six  lines;  Rosalie  Spenser  was  dead.  Her 
illness  had  been  brief,  and  she  had  not  suffered  ;  they  thought 
it  was  the  heart.  Fortunately  Lucian  had  been  able  to  get 
to  her ;  he  had  found  the  despatch  at  New  Orleans,  and  had 
started  immediately ;  they  had  had  the  last  three  days  to 
gether,  and  she  was  conscious  to  the  end.  And  then  follow 
ed  the  good  Betty's  regrets,  which  were  sincere ;  she  had  al 
ways  liked  Lucian,  and,  when  he  married,  her  affectionate, 
easily  expanding  heart  had  made  room  for  Rosalie  as  well ; 
"Lucian's  wife"  would  have  had  to  be  a  very  disagreeable 
person  indeed  to  have  made  Betty  dislike  her.  For  Betty's 
liking  included  the  relatives  of  all  her  friends,  simply  because 
they  were  relatives.  The  relationship  made  them  a  whole, 
she  accepted  them  in  a  body  as  one  accepts  "  the  French,1' 
"the  Portuguese;"  they  did  not  present  themselves  to  her 
as  objects  for  criticism. 

Winthrop  had  lunch  alone,  the  others  had  had  theirs. 
While  he  was  still  at  the  table,  Garda  came  in.  He  had 
already  seen  her,  as  well  as  Betty,  and  he  had  been  in  to  say 
a  word  of  greeting  to  his  aunt ;  but  Margaret  he  had  not  yet 
seen. 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  yon,"  Garda  said.  "  Could  you 
come  out  after  lunch  to  the  orange  walk  for  a  few  moments  ?" 
There  was  nothing  unusual  in  her  tone. 

When  he  entered  that  leafy  aisle,  later,  she  came  to  meet 
him. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  made  you  take  this  trouble,"  she  said, 
"  when  you  are  only  just  back  from  your  journey.  But  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  at  once,  it  seems  unfair  to  wait;  I  won 
der  if  you  will  be  surprised  ?  I  don't  care  for  you  any  more ; 
don't  you  think  it  would  be  as  well,  then,  to  break  our  en 
gagement  ?" 


EAST  ANGELS. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

WINTHROP  had  literally  made  no  answer  to  Garda's  speech ; 
he  only  looked  at  her. 

After  a  moment  the  girl  went  on,  gently  enough :  "  If  I 
don't  care  about  you,  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you ;  you  will 
feel  more  free.  Don't  you  think  it  is  better  that  I  should 
tell  you?" 

"Certainly;  if  it  is  true." 

After  her  first  greeting,  Garda  had  moved  away  a  step  or 
two  ;  she  now  stood  leaning  back  against  the  firm  little  trunk 
of  one  of  the  orange-trees,  playing  with  a  small  spray  of  the 
bright  leaves  as  she  talked.  At  this  answer  of  his,  her  gen 
tleness  turned  to  exasperation.  "  If  it  is  true  !  And  why 
shouldn't  it  be  true? — do  you  think  it  impossible  for  any 
body  to  stop  caring  for  you  ?  /have  stopped,  and  very  com 
pletely.  I  care  no  more  for  you  now  than  I  do  for  that 
twig."  And  she  tossed  it  away  with  a  little  gesture  of  dis 
dain. 

Winthrop's  eyes  followed  the  motion.  But  he  did  not 
speak. 

11  Still  don't  you  believe  it?"  she  asked,  in  surprise;  "you 
look  as  though  you  didn't.  I  think  that  rude." 

"On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  that  my  being  slow  to 
believe  it,  Garda,  is  the  best  honor  I  can  pay  you." 

"  Oh,  how  could  I  ever  have  liked  you  ! — how  disagreeable 
you  can  be  when  you  try  !"  Tears  shone  in  her  eyes.  "  Ev 
erybody  in  the  world  seems  to  tell  lies  but  me,"  she  went 
on,  hotly.  "  And  everybody  else  seems  to  prefer  it.  You 
yourself  would  like  it  a  great  deal  better,  and  think  it  nicer 
in  me,  if  I  should  tell  lies  now,  pretend  that  this  was  the  be 
ginning  of  a  change  instead  of  the  cod,  make  it  more  grad 
ual.  ~  Whereas  I  tell  you  simply  the  truth ;  and  then  you 
are  angry," 

"  I  am  not  angry." 


EAST  ANGELS.  393 

"  Yon  are  ever  so  much  surprised,  then,  and  that's  worse. 
I  call  it  almost  insulting  for  you  to  be  so  much  surprised  by 
what  seems  to  me  perfectly  natural.  Have  you  never  heard 
of  people's  changing?  That  is  what  has  happened  to  me — 
I  have  changed.  And  I  tell  you  the  truth  about  it,  just  as  I 
told  you  the  truth  when  it  was  different — when  I  cared  for 
you.  For  I  did  care  for  you  once,  ever  so  much  ;  didn't  you 
believe  it?  Didn't  you  know  that  I  cared  for  you  that  night 
on  the  barren  ?" 

A  red  rose  in  Winthrop's  cheeks.  After  a  moment  he 
answered,  humbly  enough,  "  Yes,  I  thought  you  did." 

"Of  course  you  thought  I  did.  And  why?  Because  I 
did;  that  night,  and  for  some  time  afterwards,  I  adored  you, 
Evert.  But  I  don't  see  why  you  should  color  up  about  it ; 
wasn't  it  natural  that  I  should  be  delighted  to  be  engaged  to 
you  when  I  adored  you?  and  isn't  it  just  as  natural  that  I 
should  wish  to  break  it  off  when  I  don't?  You  can't  want 
me  to  pretend  to  care  for  you  when  it's  all  over?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Winthrop,  his  eyes  turning  from  her. 

"  I  do  believe  you  are  embarrassed,"  said  Garda,  reverting 
to  her  usual  good  temper  again.  Then  she  broke  into  smiles. 
"  You  ought  to  thank  me,  for,  really,  you  never  cared  for  me 
at  all."  She  leaned  back  against  her  tree  again,  and  folded 
her  arms.  "  I  dare  you  to  tell  me  that  you  ever  really  cared 
for  me,  even  when  I  cared  so  much  for  you,"  she  continued, 
in  smiling  challenge.  "  What  you  would  answer  if  you  spoke 
the  truth  (as  I  do),  would  be — '  I  did  my  duty,  Garda.'  As 
though  I  wanted  duty  !  You  ought  to  fall  down  on  your 
knees  in  the  sand  this  moment  and  thank  me  for  releasing 
you;  for  you  are  much  too  honorable  ever  to  have  released 
yourself,  you  are  the  soul  of  honor.  Just  supposing  we  had 
been  married — that  we  were  married  now — where  should  we 
be  ?  I  should  have  got  over  caring  for  you,  probably  (you 
sec  I  have  got  over  it  without  being  married),  and  you  never 
did  really  care  for  me  at  all;  I  think  we've  had  a  lucky  escape." 

"  Perhaps  we  have,"  Winthrop  answered. 

"  No  '  perhaps,'  it's  a  certainty.  And  yet,"  she  went  on, 
slowly,  looking  at  him  with  musing  eyes,  "  it  might  have  had 
a  different  termination.  For  I  adored  yon,  and  you  could 
perhaps  have  kept  it  along  if  you  had  tried.  But  you  never 


394  EAST  ANGELS. 

did  try,  the  only  thing  you  tried  to  do  was  to  'mould'  me; 
you  made  me  read  things,  or,  if  you  didn't,  you  wanted  to  ; 
you  have  treated  me  always  as  if  I  were  a  child.  You  have 
had  an  idea  of  me  from  the  first  (I  don't  know  where  you 
got  it)  that  wasn't  like  me,  what  I  really  am,  in  the  very 
least.  And  you  never  found  out  your  mistake  because  you 
never  took  the  trouble  to  study  me,  myself ;  you  only  studied 
your  Idea.  Your  Idea  was  lovely,  of  course,"  pursued  the 
girl,  laughing ;  "  so  much  the  worse  for  me,  I  suppose,  that 
I  am  not  like  her.  Your  Idea  would  have  been  willing  to  be 
moulded ;  and  she  would  have  read  everything  you  suggest 
ed  ;  and  then  in  due  course  of  time — when  she  should  be  at 
least  eighteen  " — interpolated  the  girl,  with  another  burst  of 
laughter,  "  she  would  have  gratefully  thanked  you  for  admit 
ting  her  to  the  privileges  of  being  '  grown  up.'  Why — you 
didn't  even  want  me  to  care  for  you  as  much  as  I  did,  be 
cause  your  Idea  wouldn't  have  cared  so  much  for  anybody, 
of  course,  '  when  she  was  only  sixteen.'  " 

Winthrop  flushed  fiercely,  as  her  mocking  eyes  met  his, 
full  of  mirth.  Then  he  controlled  himself,  and  stopped 
where  he  was ;  he  did  not  answer  her. 

"  You  are  the  best  man  in  the  world,"  said  Garda,  com 
ing  towards  him  and  abandoning  her  raillery.  "  With  your 
views  (though  I  think  them  all  wrong,  you  know),  you  could 
say  the  most  dreadful  things  to  me ;  yet  you  won't,  because 
— because  I'm  a  woman.  You  engaged  yourself  to  me  in 
the  first  place  because  you  thought  I  cared  for  you  (I  did, 
then) ;  and  now,  when  I  tease  you  because  you  have  made 
the  mistake  of  not  understanding  me — of  having,  that  is,  a 
higher  idea  of  me  than  I  deserve — you  don't  answer  back 
and  tell  me  that,  or  anything  else  that  would  be  true  and 
horrid.  That's  very  good  of  you.  I  wish  I  could  have 
gone  on  caring  for  you !  But  I  don't,  I  can't ;  isn't  it  a 
pity  ?"  She  spoke  with  perfect  sincerity. 

Winthrop  burst  into  a  laugh. 

" Don't  laugh  in  that  way,"  Garda  went  on  ;  "I  assure  you 
I  know  perfectly  that — that  the  person  I  care  for  now  isn't 
what  you  are  in  many  ways.  But  if  I  do  care  for  him  (as  I 
cared  for  you  once — you  know  what  that  was)  shouldn't  I 
be  true  to  it  and  sav  so  ?" 


EAST  ANGELS.  395 

"  The — the  person  ?"  said  Winthrop,  looking  at  her  inquir 
ingly,  a  new  expression  coming  into  his  face. 

"  Yes,  Lncian,  of  course." 

"  Lncian !" 

"  Oh,  very  well,  if  you  take  that  tone  !  And  after  I  have 
said,  too,  that  I  knew  he  wasn't  as — that  he  wasn't  like  you. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  very  honest." 

"Very,"  replied  Winthrop.  Then  his  voice  changed,  it 
grew  at  once  more  serious  and  more  gentle.  "  I  hardly 
know,  Garda,  how  to  take  what  you  say,  I  don't  think  you 
know  what  you  are  saying.  You  stand  there  and  tell  me 
that  you  care  so  much  for  Lucian  Spenser — a  married  man — " 

"  He  isn't  married  now,"  said  Garda. 

Winthrop  gave  her  a  look  which  made  her  rush  towards 
him.  "  I  didn't  mean  it — that  is,  I  didn't  mean  that  I  was 
thinking  about  Rosalie's  death  ;  I  wasn't  thinking  about  that 
at  all,  I  have  never  thought  about  Rosalie.  Very  likely  I 
shall  not  see  Lucian  for  ever  and  ever  so  long,  and  very  like 
ly  he  won't  care  for  me  when  I  do.  He  has  never  given  the 
least  sign  that  he  cared — don't  think  that."  And,  clasping 
her  hands  round  his  wrist,  she  looked  up  in  his  face  in  ear 
nest  appeal.  "  Nothing  has  ever  been  said  between  us — not 
one  word  ;  it  is  only  how  /  have  felt." 

"Whom  are  you  defending  now?"  asked  Winthrop,  as 
coldly  as  a  man  may  when  a  girl  so  beautiful  is  clinging  to 
him  pleadingly. 

"  Lucian,"  responded  Garda,  promptly. 

The  mention  of  his  name  seemed  to  give  her  thoughts  a 
new  direction ;  disengaging  herself,  she  came  round  to  stand 
in  front  of  her  companion  in  order  to  have  a  good  position 
while  she  told  her  story.  "  Don't  you  remember  that  I  be 
gan  caring  for  Lucian  first  of  all?  you  must  remember  that? 
Then  I  got  over  it.  Next  I  cared  for  you.  Then,  when  he 
came  back,  I  began  to  care  for  him  again — you  have  no  idea 
how  delightful  he  is !"  she  said,  breaking  oft*  for  a  moment, 
and  giving  him  a  frank  smile.  "  Well,  I  should  have  told 
you  all  about  it  long  ago,  only  Margaret  wouldn't  let  me ; 
she  has  made  me  promise  her  twice,  and  faithfully,  not  to 
tell  you.  You  see, Margaret  thinks  you  care  for  me;  there 
fore  it  would  hurt  you  to  know  it.  I  have  told  her  over  and 


396  EAST  ANGELS. 

over  again  that  you  don't  care  at  all,  and  that  I  don't  care 
any  longer  for  you.  But  it  doesn't  make  any  difference, 
she  can't  understand  it ;  she  thinks  that  if  I  cared  once,  it 
must  last  still ;  because  that  is  the  kind  that  Margaret  is  her 
self;  if  she  cared,  it  would  last.  So  she  can't  believe  that  I 
have  really  changed,  she  thinks  (isn't  it  funny  ?)  that  I  am 
mistaken  about  myself,  that  I  don't  know  my  own  mind. 
And  then,  too,  to  change  from  you  to  Lucian — that  she  could 
never  understand  in  a  thousand  years." 

Winthrop  had  had  his  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his 
morning-coat  during  this  history.  He  stood  looking  stead 
ily  down,  perhaps  to  keep  her  from  seeing  his  expression. 

But  she  divined  it.  "  You  needn't  have  such  a  stern  face, 
I  am  sure  everybody's  very  good  to  you.  Here  I've  released 
you  from  an  engagement  you  didn't  desire,  and  Margaret, 
the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world,  cares  so  much  for  your 
feelings — what  she  supposes  them  to  be — that  she  has  done 
her  best  to  hold  me  to  you  just  because  she  thinks  you  would 
mind.  Of  course,  too,  on  my  own  account  a  little — because 
she  thinks  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  marry  you,  that  it 
would  be  safe.  Well,  you  know  you  are  safe,  Evert."  And 
the  rippling  laugh  broke  forth  again,  meeting  this  time  de 
cided  anger  in  Winthrop's  gray  eyes  as  lie  raised  them  to 
meet  hers. 

"  There,  you  needn't  crush  me,"  Garda  resumed.  "  And 
you  needn't  mind  me,  either  me,  or  my  laughing.  For,  of 
course,  I  know  that  if  I  could  have  cared  for  you,  that  is, 
gone  on  caring,  and  if  in  the  end  you  could  have  cared  for 
me,  it  would  have  been  better  for  me  than  anything  that 
could  possibly  happen ;  you  ought  not  to  be  angry  with  a 
girl  who  tells  you  that?"  And  taking  his  arm,  she  looked 
up  in  his  face  very  sweetly.  "  But  the  trouble  was  that  you 
didn't  care  for  me,  you  don't  now.  Yet  you  kept  to  your 
engagement,  you  took  me  and  made  the  best  of  me;  and  I 
think  that  was  very  good.  Well,  it's  over  now."  She  had 
kept  his  arm,  and  now  she  began  to  stroll  down  the  aisle  tow 
ards  the  rose-garden.  "There's  something  else  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  about,  now  that  we've  got  through  with  our 
own  affairs ;  and  that's  Margaret.  Why  have  you  such  a 
wron<">'  idea  of  her? — she  is  so  noble  as  well  as  so  sweet 


EAST  ANGELS.  397 

She  promised  ray  mother  to  be  like  a  sister  to  me;  but, 
Heaven  knows,  few  real  sisters  would  have  been  as  patient 
as  she  has  been.  I  have  never  seen  any  one  that  could  ap 
proach  her.  I  didn't  know  a  woman  could  be  like  that— 
so  unchangeable  and  true.  For  we  are  not  true  to  each 
other — women,  I  mean  ;  that  is,  not  when  we  care  for  some 
body.  Then  we  pretend,  we  pretend  awfully  ;  we  tell  things, 
or  keep  them  back, or  tell  only  half,  just  as  we  choose;  and 
we  always  think  that  we  have  a  perfect  right  to  do  it.  But 
Margaret's  different,  Margaret's  wonderful.  Yet  none  of  you, 
her  nearest  relatives,  do  her  the  least  justice ;  it  is  left  to  me 
to  appreciate  her.  Leaving  Mrs.  Rutherford  out,  this  is  more 
stupidity  than  I  can  account  for  in  you." 

"Men  are  all  stupid,  of  course,"  Wiuthrop  answered. 

"  What  makes  all  she  has  done  for  me  the  more  remarka 
ble,"  Garda  went  on,  not  heeding  his  tone,  "  is  the  fact  that 
she  doesn't  really  like  me,  she  cannot,  I  am  so  different.  Yet 
she  goes  on  being  good  to  me  just  the  same." 

Winthrop  made  an  impatient  movement.  "Suppose  we 
don't  talk  any  more  about  Mrs.  Harold,"  he  said. 

"  I  must  talk  about  her,  when  I  love  her  and  trust  her  more 
than  anything." 

"  Don't  trust  her  too  much." 

She  drew  her  arm  from  his,  indignantly.  "  One  night  she 
came  way  down  the  live-oak  avenue  after  me,  with  only  slip 
pers  on  her  poor  little  feet,  to  keep  me  from  going  out  in 
the  fog  with  Lucian — sailing,  I  mean.  What  do  you  think 
of  that?" 

"  I  don't  think  anything." 

"  Yes,  you  do ;  your  face  shows  that  you  do." 

"  My  face,  shows,  perhaps,  what  I  think  of  the  extraordi 
nary  duplicity  of  women,"  said  Winthrop. 

"  Duplicity  ?  Do  you  call  it  duplicity  for  me  to  be  telling 
you  every  single  thing  I  think  and  feel,  as  I  have  done  to 
day  ?" 

"  I  was  speaking  of  Mrs.  Harold." 

"  Duplicity  and  Margaret !"  exclaimed  Garda. 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  orange  aisle,  and  she  no 
longer  had  his  arm.  "  I  can't  discuss  her  with  you,  Garda," 
he  said.  And  he  went  out  into  the  sunshine  beyond. 


398  EAST  ANGELS. 

But  Garda  followed  him.  She  came  round,  placed  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  pushed  him  with  soft  violence 
back  into  the  shade.  "  Why  do  you  speak  so  of  her  ?  you 
shall  tell  me.  AVhy  shouldn't  I  trust  her  ?  But  I  do  and  I 
will  in  spite  of  you  !" 

"Do  you  mean  to  marry  that  man,  Garda?"  asked  Win- 
throp,  at  last,  as  she  stood  there  holding  him,  her  eyes  on  his, 
thinking  of  her  no  longer  as  the  young  girl  of  his  fancy,  but 
as  the  woman. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Garda,  her  tone  altering ;  "  per 
haps  he  won't  care  for  me." 

"  But  if  he  should  care  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  murmured  the  girl,  the  most  lovely,  rapturous  smile 
lighting  up  her  face. 

Winthrop  contemplated  her  for  a  moment.  "  Very  well, 
then,  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you :  she  cares  for  Lucian  her 
self." 

Garda's  hands  dropped.  "  It  isn't  possible  that  you  be 
lieve  that — that  you  have  believed  it !  Margaret  care  for  Lu 
cian  !  She  doesn't  care  a  straw  for  him,  and  since  /  have 
begun  to  care  for  him  again,  I  verily  believe  that  she  has 
detested  him;  he  knows  it  too.  Margaret  care  for  him! 
What  are  you  thinking  of?  /care,  not  Margaret ;  I've  done 
nothing  but  try  to  be  with  him,  and  meet  him,  and  I've  seen 
him  more  times  than  she  knows.  Why — it  gave  her  that 
fever  just  because  she  had  to  do  something  for  him ;  that 
last  afternoon  before  he  went  away  (I  promised  her  I  wouldn't 
tell  you ;  but  I  don't  care,  I  shall),  I  had  asked  Lucian  to 
meet  me  at  the  pool  in  the  south-eastern  woods,  and  then  I 
thought  that  I  should  rather  see  him  at  the  house  after  all, 
and  so  I  started  a  little  earlier,  and  was  on  my  way  to  Mad 
am  Giron's,  when  I  came  upon  Margaret.  I  had  to  tell  her, 
because  she  wanted  me  to  go  home  with  her  and  of  course  I 
couldn't.  And  then,  suddenly,  we  saw  Dr.  Kirby  coming, 
and  I  knew  it  must  be  for  me — he  had  found  out  in  some 
way  my  plan — and  I  knew,  too,  that  it  would  be  dreadful  if 
he  should  meet  Lucian ;  I  was  sure  he  would  shoot  him  ! 
And  I  was  going  to  run  over  and  warn  Lucian — there  was 
just  time — when  Margaret  said  she  would  do  it,  and  that  / 
had  better  go  back  up  the  path  and  stop  the  Doctor,  keep 


EAST  ANGELS.  399 

him  away  from  there  entirely,  if  possible,  which  was,  of 
course,  much  the  best  plan.  So  I  did.  And  she  went  to 
Madam  Giron's.  And  I  am  convinced  that  it  was  the  cause 
of  her  illness — it  was  so  disagreeable  to  her  to  be  mixed  up 
in  anything  connected  with  Lucian." 

Garda  had  poured  out  this  narrative  with  all  the  eloquence 
of  the  warm  affection  she  had  for  her  friend.  Now  she 
stopped.  "She  doesn't  like  Lucian  because  she  doesn't  un 
derstand  him,"  she  said.  Then  she  repented.  "  No,  it  isn't 
that,  he  isn't  the  person  for  her.  Lucian  will  do  for  me;  but 
not  for  Margaret."  And  she  looked  at  Winthrop  with  one  of 
her  sudden  comprehending  glances,  clear  as  a  beam  of  light. 

But  he  did  not  respond  to  this.  "When  you  met  her 
that  afternoon,  Garda,  where  was  she  ?"  he  asked  ;  he  seemed 
to  be  thrusting  Garda  and  her  affairs  aside  now. 

"  I  told  you  ;  in  the  south-eastern  woods." 

"Yes.     But  where?" 

"  In  the  eastern  path,  at  the  end  of  that  long  straight 
stretch  beyond  the  pool — just  before  you  get  to  the  bend." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"  Then  I  went  back  up  the  path  to  meet  the  Doctor.  And 
Margaret  went  down  the  path  and  across  the  field  to  Madam 
Giron's." 

At  this  instant  appeared  Celestine.  She  had  gone  to  the 
entrance  of  the  aisle  which  was  nearest  the  house,  and  looked 
in  ;  then,  seeing  that  they  were  at  the  far  end,  she  had  left  it 
and  come  round  on  the  outside. 

For  something  forbade  Celestine  to  walk  down  that  long 
vista  alone.  They  would  probably  hear  her  and  turn ;  and 
then  there  would  be  the  necessity  of  approaching  them  for 
fully  five  minutes  step  bv  step,  with  the  consciousness  that 
they  were  looking ;  she  could  not  stare  back  at  them,  and 
yet  neither  could  she  look  all  the  time  at  the  sand  at  her  feet 
— which  would  be  dizzying.  Celestine  always  took  care  of 
her  dignity  in  this  way ;  she  had  a  fixed  regard  for  herself 
as  a  decent  Vermont  woman  ;  you  could  see  that  in  the  self- 
respecting  way  in  which  her  large  neat  shoes  lifted  them 
selves  and  came  down  again  when  she  walked. 

"  Mrs.  Rutherford  would  like  to  see  you,  Mr.  Evert,  if  you 
please  ;  she  isn't  so  well,  she  says." 


400  EAST  ANGELS. 

"Nothing  serious,  Minerva,  I  hope?" 

"I  guess  there's  no  occasion  to  be  scairt,  Mr.  Evert.  But 
she  wants  you." 

"I  will  come  immediately." 

Celestine  disappeared. 

Garda  and  Wintbrop  turned  back  towards  the  house 
through  the  orange  aisle. 

"  Mrs.  Rutherford  has  never  known,  has  she,  that  we  have 
been  engaged?"  asked  Garda. 

"No.'" 

"There  is  no  need  that  she  should  ever  know,  then ;  she 
isn't  fond  of  me  as  it  is,  and  she  would  detest  me  forever  if 
she  knew  there  had  been  a  chance  of  my  becoming  in  reality 
her  niece.  I  don't  want  to  trouble  her  any  longer  with  even 
my  unseen  presence ;  I  want  to  go  away." 

"Where?" 

"  It  doesn't  make  much  difference  where.  It  is  only  that  I 
am  restless,  and  as  I  have  never  been  restless  before,  I  thought 
that  perhaps  if  I  should  go  away  for  a  while,  it  would  stop." 

"  Yes,  you  wish  to  see  the  world,"  said  Wintbrop,  vaguely. 
His  mind  was  not  upon  Garda  now. 

"I  don't  care  for  'the  world,'"  the  girl  responded.  "/ 
only  care  for  the  people  in  it." 

Then,  in  answer  to  a  glance  of  his  as  his  attention  came 
back  to  her,  "  No,  I  am  not  going  after  Lucian,"  she  said ; 
"  don't  think  that.  I  am  almost  sure  that  Lucian  will  go 
abroad  now  ;  he  was  always  talking  about  it, — saying  that  he 
longed  to  spend  a  summer  in  Venice,  and  paint  everything 
there.  No — but  I  think  I  might  go  to  Charleston — the  Doctor 
could  take  me ;  he  has  a  cousin  there,  Mrs.  Lowndcs  ;  I  could 
stay  with  her.  Margaret  will  oppose  it.  But  the  Doctor  is 
my  guardian  too,  you  know  ;  and  I  hope  you  will  take  my 
part.  Of  course  I  should  rather  go  with  Margaret  anywhere, 
if  she  could  only  go;  but  she  cannot,  you  know  Mrs.  Ruther 
ford  would  never  let  her.  So  she  will  feel  called  upon — Mar 
garet — to  oppose  it." 

They  had  now  come  to  the  end  of  the  aisle.  "  Promise 
me  to  take  my  part,"  said  Garda.  Then,  perceiving  that  his 
attention  had  left  her  again,  "See  what  I  am  reduced  to  1" 
she  confided  to  the  last  orange-tree. 


EAST  ANGELS.  401 

Win  tin-op  brought  himself  back.  "  I  don't  sec  any  reason 
why  you  shouldn't  go  to  Charleston  if  the  Doctor  will  take 
you,"  he  said ;  "  you  must  speak  to  him  about  it." 

"  Well,  I  won't  keep  you ;  I  see  you  want  to  go. — All  the 
same,  you  know,  I  liked  you,"  she  called  after  him  as  he  went 
out  in  the  sunshine. 

He  glanced  back,  smiling. 

But  Garda  looked  perfectly  serious.  She  stood  there 
framed  in  the  light  green  shade  ;  "  I  should  like  ever  so  much 
to  go  back  to  the  time  when  I  first  cared  for  you  1"  she  said, 
regretfully. 

Winthrop  found  Mrs.  Rutherford  much  excited.  Betty, 
tearful  and  distressed,  met  him  outside  the  door,  and  in  whis 
pered  words  confessed  that  she  had  inadvertently  betrayed 
the  fact  of  his  engagement,  to  dear  Katrina ;  "  I  can't  imag 
ine,  though,  why  she  should  feel  about  it  as  she  docs  —  as 
though  it  was  something  terrible,"  concluded  the  friend, 
plucking  up  a  little  spirit  at  the  end  of  her  confession,  and 
wiping  her  eyes. 

"She  won't  feel  so  long,"  said  Winthrop, — "you  can  take 
comfort  from  that ;  my  engagement  is  broken." 

"BROKEN?" 

"Yes;  by  Garda  herself,  ten  minutes  ago."  And  leaving 
Betty  to  digest  this  new  intelligence,  he  went  in  to  see  his 
aunt. 

His  aunt  had  had  herself  put  into  an  arm-chair:  an  arm 
chair  was  more  impressive  than  a  bed.  "  I  feel  very  ill,  Ev 
ert,"  she  began,  in  a  faint  voice ;  "  I  never  could  have  believed 
that  you  would  deceive  me  in  this  way." 

"Let  me  undeceive  you,  then.  My  engagement — for  I 
presume  it  is  that  you  are  thinking  of — is  broken." 

"Did  you  break  it,  Evert?"  pursued  Aunt  Katrina,  still  in 
affliction. 

"No,  Miss  Thorne  broke  it.     Ten  minutes  ago." 

"A  forward  minx!"  said  the  lady,  veering  suddenly  to 
heat. 

"  It  is  done,  at  any  rate.     I  suppose  you  are  glad." 

"Of  course  I  am  glad.  But  I  should  be  gladder  still  if  I 
thought  I  should  never  see  her  face  again !" 

"  That  is  apropos — she  is  anxious  to  go  to  Charleston." 
26 


402  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Let  her  go,"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  with  majesty. 

"She  is  afraid  Margaret  will  object." 

"/  shall  object  if  she  stays!  But  oh,  Evert,  how  could 
you  have  been  caught  in  such  a  trap  as  that,  by  a  perfectly 
unknown,  shallow,  mercenary  girl  ?" 

"  Unknown — for  the  present,  yes ;  shallow — I  am  not  pre 
pared  to  say  ;  but  mercenary  ?  If  she  were  mercenary,  would 
she  have  let  me  off?  Would  she  have  broken  the  engage 
ment  herself,  as  she  did  ten  minutes  ago?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  repeating  that 'ten  minutes,'  " 
said  Aunt  Katrina,  irritably.  "  Who  cares  for  ten  minutes? 
I  wish  it  were  ten  years."  Then  her  mind  reverted  to  Garda. 
"  She  has  some  plan,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  think  she  plans.  And  now  that  this  trouble  is 
off  your  mind,  my  dear  aunt,  will  you  excuse  me  if  I  leave 
you  ?  I  have  still  only  just  arrived,  and  I  was  up  at  dawn. 
Shall  I  send  Celestine  to  you  ?" 

"Celestinc  is  busy;  she  is  refolding  some  lace — Flemish 
church." 

"Your  Betty,  then." 

"  My  Betty  has  behaved  in  the  most  traitorous  way." 

"When  she  was  the  one  to  tell  you?" 

"  She  should  have  told  me  long  before." 

"  Why  she,  more  than  any  of  the  rest  of  us?"  asked  Win- 
throp,  rising. 

"Because  she  must  have  made  a  superhuman  effort  not 
to;  because  she  must  have  fairly  kept  herself  in  a  strait-jacket 
to  prevent  it  —  in  a  strait-jacket  night  and  day;  for  eight 
long  months  has  Elizabeth  Gwinnet  done  that !" 

"Don't  you  think,  then,  that  you  ought  to  have  some  pity 
for  her?"  suggested  Winthrop. 

He  went  out.  And  then  Betty,  who  was  sitting,  dazed  and 
dejected,  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  outside  the  door,  hurried  in, 
handkerchief  in  hand,  to  make  her  peace  with  dearest  Kate, 
her  long  limp  black  skirt  (all  Betty's  skirts  were  long)  trail 
ing  in  an  eager,  humble  way  behind  her. 

Winthrop  had  said  that  he  wished  to  go  to  his  room. 
The  way  to  it  was  not  through  the  drawing-room ;  yet  he 
found  himself  in  the  latter  apartment. 

Margaret  sat  there  near  one  of  the  windows  sewing,  sewing 


EAST  ANGELS.  403 

with  that  even  motion  of  hand,  and  absorbed  gaze  bent  on 
the  long  seam,  which  he  had  told  himself  more  than  once  that 
he  detested.  The  heavy  wooden  shutter  was  slightly  open,  so 
that  a  beam  of  light  entered  and  shone  across  her  hair ;  the 
rest  of  the  room  was  in  shadow. 

Winthrop  came  towards  her;  he  had  closed  the  door  upon 
entering.  She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  they  exchanged  a  few 
words  of  formal  greeting — inquiry  and  reply  about  his  jour 
ney  and  kindred  matters. 

"  Garda  has  broken  her  engagement  to  me  ;  I  presume  you 
know  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  knew  she  intended  to  do  it." 

"She  tells  me  that  you  have  tried  to  dissuade  her?" 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  she  did  not,  perhaps,  fully  know  her  own 
mind." 

"  We  must  give  up  the  idea  that  she  is  a  child,"  he  said. 
"We  have  been  mistaken,  probably,  about  that  all  along." 

Margaret  sewed  on  without  answering. 

"You  are  very  loyal  to  her;  you  don't  let  me  see  that  you 
agree  with  me." 

"  I  didn't  suppose  that  you  meant  any  disparagement, 
when  you  said  it." 

"  She  tells  me  that  she  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more." 
He  took  a  book  from  the  table  beside  him,  and  looked  ab 
sently  at  its  title.  "  We  must  allow  that  she  has  a  great  fa 
cility  as  regards  change." 

"  She  has  a  great  honesty." 

Winthrop  sat  down — until  now  he  had  been  standing; 
he  threw  aside  the  book.  "  You  certainly  can't  approve  of 
it,"  he  said, — "such  a  disposition?" 

He  did  not  pay  much  heed  to  what  he  was  saying,  he  was 
absorbed  in  the  problem  before  him  ;  face  to  face  with  Mar 
garet,  he  was  asking  himself,  and  with  more  inward  tumult 
than  ever,  why  she  had  been  so  willing  to  have  him  think  of 
her,  as,  after  what  he  had  seen,  he  must  think?  During  his 
two  weeks  of  absence — the  evening  before  on  that  long  pier 
in  the  rain — he  had  felt  a  hot  anger  against  her  for  the  un 
concern  with  which  she  was  treating  him.  But  now  that  he 
knew  the  real  history  of  that  last  afternoon,  now  that  he 
knew  that  it  was  Garda  who  had  planned  the  meeting  with 


404  EAST  ANGELS. 

Lucian,  Garcia,  not  Margaret,  who  bad  been  on  bcr  way  to 
tliat  solitary  house,  the  problem  was  more  strangely  haunting 
even  than  before.  She  had  saved  Garda  from  compromising 
herself  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  to  whom  she  was  engaged — 
yes;  but  she  had  done  it  at  the  expense  of  compromising 
herself,  Garda,  meanwhile,  remaining  ignorant  of  the  great 
ness  of  the  sacrifice,  since  she  did  not  know,  as  Margaret 
did,  that  he,  Winthrop,  was  sitting  there  in  the  wood  be 
yond  the  bend. 

Certainly  it  was  an  immense  thing  for  one  woman  to  have 
done  for  another;  you  might  say,  indeed,  that  there  was 
nothing  greater  that  a  woman  could  do. 

Then  came  again  the  galling  thought  that  Margaret  had 
not  found  the  task  so  difficult,  simply  because  she  was  indif 
ferent  as  to  what  his  opinion  of  her  might  be;  she  knew 
that  she  had  not  been  in  any  sense  of  the  word  to  blame — 
that  was  enough  for  her;  what  he  knew,  or  thought  he 
knew,  troubled  her  little. 

But  no,  that  could  not  be.  Margaret  Harold  was  a  proud 
woman — you  could  see  that,  quiet  as  she  was,  in  every  deli 
cate  line  of  her  face;  it  was  not  natural,  therefore,  that  she 
should  willingly  rest  in  the  eyes  of  any  one  under  such  an 
imputation  as  that.  Surely,  now  that  Garda  had,  of  her  own 
accord,  broken  off  her  engagement,  and  confessed  (only  Gar- 
da  never  "confessed,"  she  merely  told)  that  her  old  liking 
for  Lucian  had  risen  again,  surely  now  Margaret  would  throw 
off  the  false  character  that  rested  upon  her,  would  hasten  to 
do  so,  would  be  glad  to  do  so ;  there  was  no  necessity  to 
shield  Garda  further.  She  had  made  the  girl  promise  not 
to  tell  him  the  real  version  of  the  events  of  that  last  after 
noon  ;  didn't  this  mean  that,  if  the  circumstances  should 
ever  change  so  that  it  was  possible  to  give  the  real  version, 
she  wished  to  give  it  to  him  herself?  The  circumstances 
had  changed ;  and  now,  wouldn't  she  take  advantage  of  it  ? 
Wouldn't  she  be  glad  to  explain,  at  last,  the  reasons  that 
took  her  to  Madam  Giron's  that  day?  Of  course  she  sup 
posed  that  still  he  did  not  know ;  it  would  not  occur  to  her 
that  Garda  might  break  her  promise. 

But  still  her  hand  came  and  went  above  the  white  seam. 
And  still  she  said  nothing. 


EAST  ANGELS.  405 

He  waited  a  long  time — as  long  as  it  was  possible  to  sit 
there  without  speaking.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  last  re 
mark — which  she  had  not  answered  ;  annoyed  by  her  silence, 
he  went  from  bad  to  worse.  "I  shall  be  surprised  if  you 
approve  of  it ; — you  have  such  a  regard  for  appearances." 

She  colored.  "I  am  not  very  successful  in  preserving 
them  then,  even  if  I  have  a  regard." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  mind  me"  answered  Winthrop,  in  a  tone 
which  in  spite  of  himself  was  openly  bitter. 

She  looked  up,  he  could  sec  that  she  was  much  moved. 
"  We  must  do  everything  we  can  for  Garda  now,"  she  said, 
rather  incoherently,  her  eyes  returning  to  her  work. 

"You  have  done  altogether  too  much  for  her  as  it  is;  I 
don't  think  you  need  trouble  yourself  so  constantly  about 
Garda,  you  might  think  for  a  moment  of  your  other 
friends." 

He  was  absolutely  pleading — he  could  scarcely  believe  it 
of  himself.  But  he  wanted  so  to  have  her  set  him  right! 
He  wanted  her  to  do  it  of  her  own  accord — show  that  she 
was  glad  to  be  able  to  do  it  at  last.  There  was  no  longer 
any  question  of  saving  Garda;  Garda  had,  in  her  own  eyes 
at  least,  saved  herself.  He  waited  for  his  answer. 

She  had  given  him  a  frightened  glance  as  he  spoke,  the 
expression  of  his  face  seemed  to  take  her  by  surprise,  and 
break  down  her  self-possession.  She  rose,  murmuring  some 
thing  about  being  obliged  to  go. 

"  You  are  sure  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Margaret  ?" 
he  asked,  as  she  went  towards  the  door. 

"  Say  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  am  giving  you  a  chance  to  explain,  I  long  to  have  you 
explain.  I  find  myself  unable  to  believe —  He  stopped. 
Then  he  began  again.  "  I  am  sure  there  is  some  solution — 
If  I  have  not  always  liked  your  course  in  other  matters,  at 
least  I  have  never  thought  this  of  you.  You  know  what  I 
witnessed  that  afternoon,  as  I  sat  there  in  the  woods ;  one 
word  will  be  enough — tell  me  what  I  must  think  of  it — and 
of  you."  He  was  trying  her  to  the  utmost  now. 

A  painful  red  flush  had  darkened  her  face,  but,  except  for 
that,  she  did  not  flinch.  "  You  must  think  what  you  please," 
she  answered. 


406  EAST  ANGELS. 

Then  she  escaped ;  she  had  opened  the  door,  and  now  she 
went  rapidly  down  the  hall  towards  her  own  room. 

He  stood  gazing.  If  he  had  not  known  she  was  innocent, 
he  should  have  set  down  her  tone  to  defiance;  it  was  exactly 
the  sort  of  low-voiced  defiance  which  he  had  expected  from 
her  when  he  had  supposed — what  he  had  supposed. 

But  his  suppositions  had  been  entirely  false.  Did  she  still 
wish  him  to  believe  that  they  were  true  ? 

It  appeared  so. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

GARDA  TIIORNE  went  to  Charleston.  Margaret  gave  her 
consent  only  after  much  hesitation  ;  but  Dr.  Kirby  was  from 
the  first  firmly  in  favor  of  the  plan.  He  himself  would  take 
his  ward  to  the  South  Carolina  city  (for  Garda,  the  Doctor 
would  draw  upon  his  thin  purse  whether  he  were  able  to 
afford  it  or  not),  she  should  stay  with  his  accomplished 
cousin  Sally  Lowndes ;  thus  she  would  have  the  best  op 
portunity  to  see  the  cultivated  society  of  that  dear  little 
town. 

This  last  sentence  was  partly  the  Doctor's  and  partly  Win- 
throp's ;  the  Doctor  had  spoken  thus  reverentially  of  Charles 
ton  society,  and  Winthrop  thus  admiringly  of  Charleston 
itself,  which  had  seemed  to  him,  the  first  time  he  beheld  it, 
the  prettiest  place  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  a  place  of  marked 
characteristics  of  its  own,  many  of  them  highly  picturesque; 
his  use  of  the  word  "  little  "  had  been  affectionate,  not  de 
scriptive.  He  had  found  a  charm  in  the  old  houses,  gable 
end  to  the  street;  in  the  jealous  walls  and  great  gardens;  in 
St.  Michael's  spire ;  in  the  dusky  library,  full  of  grand-man 
nered  old  English  authors  in  expensive  old  bindings;  in  the 
little  Huguenot  church ;  in  the  old  manor-houses  on  the  two 
rivers  that  come  down,  one  on  each  side,  to  form  the  beauti 
ful  harbor ;  in  the  rice  fields ;  in  the  great  lilies.  The  Bat 
tery  at  sunset,  with  Fort  Moultrie  on  one  hand,  the  silver 
beaches  round  Wagner  and  the  green  marsh  where  the  great 
guns  had  been  on  the  other,  and  Sumtcr  on  its  islet  in  mid- 


EAST  ANGELS.  407 

stream — this  was  an  unsurpassed  lounging-place ;  there  was 
nothing  fairer. 

The  Doctor  had  been  much  roused  by  the  breaking  of 
Garda's  engagement.  Garda  had  told  him  that  Evert  had 
not  been  to  blame.  But  the  Doctor  was  not  so  sure  of  that. 
He  felt,  indeed,  that  he  himself  had  been  to  blame,  they  had 
all  been  to  blame ;  ma,  Betty  Carew,  the  Moores,  Madam 
Ruiz  and  the  Senor  Ruiz,  Madam  Giron — they  had  all  been 
asleep,  and  had  let  this  worst  of  modern  innovations  creep 
upon  them  unawares.  For  surely  the  foundations  of  society 
were  shaken  when  the  engagement  of  a  young  lady  of  Gar- 
da's  position  could  be  "  broken."  "  And  broken,  ma,"  as  he 
repeated  solemnly  to  his  little  mother  a  dozen  times,  "  with 
out  cause." 

"  Well,  my  son,  would  you  rather  have  had  it  broken 
with,  /"  asked  ma  at  last. 

The  Doctor  had  had  an  interview  with  Winthrop.  And 
he  had  been  obliged  to  confess  (still  to  ma)  that  the  north 
erner  had  borne  himself  with  courtesy  and  dignity,  had  given 
him  nothing  to  take  hold  of;  he  had  simply  said,  in  a  few 
words,  that  Garda  had  asked  to  be  released,  and  that  of 
course  he  had  released  her. 

The  Doctor  himself  had  fervently  desired  that  she  should 
be  freed.  But  this  made  no  difference  in  his  astonishment 
that  the  thing  could  really  be  done,  had  already  been  brought 
about.  Garda  had  wished  it;  he  himself  had  wished  it;  and 
Winthrop  had  obeyed  their  wish.  Nevertheless,  Reginald 
Kirby  was  a  prey  to  rage,  he  was  sure  that  somebody  ought 
to  be  severely  handled.  In  the  mean  while  it  seemed  a  wise 
course  to  take  Garda  to  other  scenes. 

Adolf o  Torres  returned  from  Cuba  before  Garda's  de 
parture.  He  bade  her  good-by  with  his  usual  gravity  ;  then, 
exactly  three  hours  later,  he  started  for  Charleston  himself. 
He  kept  punctiliously  just  that  amount  of  time  behind  her, 
it  was  part  of  his  method;  on  this  occasion  the  method 
caused  some  discomfort,  since,  owing  to  the  small  number 
of  trains  in  that  leisurely  land,  it  obliged  him  to  travel  with 
the  freight  all  the  way. 

A  week  later  a  letter  came  to  Evert  Winthrop.  It  was  a 
letter  which  gave  him  a  sharp  surprise. 


408  EAST  ANGELS. 

It  bore  the  postmark  of  the  little  post-office  out  in  the  St. 
John's  where  he  had  sat  in  the  rain,  and  the  contents  were 
as  follows : 

"  DEAR  OLD  LAD, — I  am  here — on  the  river.  Could  you 
come  over  for  a  day  ?  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  you. 

"  LANSING  HAROLD." 

At  the  last  intelligence,  Lanse  had  been  in  Rome. 

There  was  a  scrawled  postscript : 

"  Say  nothing,  I  write  only  to  you." 

Winthrop's  relations  with  Margaret  since  they  had  parted, 
on  the  day  of  his  return,  at  the  drawing-room  door,  had  been 
of  the  scantiest ;  they  had  scarcely  exchanged  a  word.  She 
avoided  him ;  he  said  to  himself  that  she  had  turned  into 
ice;  but  this  was  not  a  truthful  comparison,  for  ice  does 
not  look  troubled,  and  Margaret  looked  both  troubled  and 
worn.  When  he  was  present  she  was  impassive ;  but  her 
very  impassiveness  showed  —  but  what  did  it  show?  He 
could  think  of  no  solution  that  satisfied  him  any  more  than 
he  could  think  of  a  solution  of  the  mystery  of  her  apparent 
desire  that  he  should  continue  to  believe  of  her  what  he  had 
believed. 

And  now,  to  make  things  more  complicated,  Lanse  had 
dropped  down  upon  them  ! 

Winthrop  made  a  pretext  of  another  hunting  expedition, 
drove  over  to  the  river,  and  embarked  again  upon  the  slow 
old  Hernando,  which  brought  him  in  due  course  to  the  long 
pier;  here,  sitting  in  the  United  States  chair,  was  Harold. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Winthrop  had  seen  Lanse.  He 
thought  him  much  altered.  His  figure  had  grown  larger ; 
though  he  was  still  but  forty-one,  none  of  the  outlines  of 
youth  were  left,  there  was  only  an  impression  of  bulk.  His 
thick  dark  hair  was  mixed  with  gray,  as  also  his  short  beard; 
and  the  beard  could  not  conceal  the  increased  breadth  of  tho 
lower  part  of  the  face,  the  slight  lap-over  of  the  cheeks  above 
the  collar.  His  dark  eyes,  with  the  yellow  lights  in  them, 
were  dull;  his  well-cut  mouth  was  a  little  open,  giving  him 
a  blank  expression,  as  though  he  were  half  asleep. 

But  when  this  expression  changed,  as  it  did  when  the  si- 


EAST  ANGELS.  409 

lent  postmaster  suggested,  by  a  wave  of  the  Land,  that  his 
guest  should  move  the  government  chair  a  little  in  order  not 
to  be  in  the  way  of  the  passengers  who  might  land,  the  al 
teration  was  so  complete,  though  not  a  feature  stirred,  that 
Winthrop  laughed ;  Lanse  serenely  stared  at  the  'coon-skin- 
hatted  man  as  though  he  did  not  exist ;  his  gaze  restored 
perfectly,  for  himself  at  least,  the  space  of  light  and  air 
which  that  public  servant  was  mistakenly  filling. 

All  this  Winthrop  witnessed  from  the  deck,  as  the  Her- 
nando  was  slowly  swinging  her  broad  careening  side  towards 
the  pier.  Lanse  had  not  recognized  his  figure  among  the 
motley  crowd  of  voyagers  collected  at  the  railing ;  it  was 
not  until  the  ropes  had  been  made  fast  by  the  postmaster 
(who  was  also  wharf-master,  showing  much  activity  in  that 
avocation),  and  the  plank  put  out,  that  the  lessening  crowd 
brought  Winthrop's  figure  more  into  relief.  He  waved  his 
hand  again  to  Lanse;  and  then  Lanse,  springing  up,  respond 
ed,  and  all  the  old  look  came  back ;  the  dulness  vanished, 
the  heaviness  became  subordinate  to  the  brightening  eyes 
and  the  smile,  he  waved  his  hand  in  return.  They  met  with 
gladness ;  Lanse  seemed  delighted  to  see  his  cousin,  and 
Winthrop  had  never  forgotten  his  old  affection  for  the  big, 
good-natured,  handsome  lad  of  his  boyhood  days. 

The  pier  was  soon  left  to  them ;  every  one  else  departed, 
and  the  two  men,  strolling  up  and  down,  talked  together. 

At  length  Lanse  said :  "  Well,  I'm  glad  Margaret's  as  you 
describe "  (but  Winthrop  had  not  described  her)  ;  "  for  I 
might  as  well  tell  you  at  once  what  I'm  down  here  for — I 
want  her  to  come  back." 

"Comeback?" 

uYes.  I  have  her  promise  to  come;  but  women  are  so 
insufferably  changeable." 

"  She  isn't." 

"  Isn't  she  ?  So  much  the  better  for  me,  then ;  for  she 
knew  the  worst  of  me  when  she  made  that  promise,  and  if  by 
a  miracle  she  has  remained  in  the  same  mind,  my  road  will 
be  easy." 

"I  don't  mean  to  push  myself  into  your  confidence, 
Lanse,"  said  Winthrop,  after  a  moment's  silence;  "but  I 
think  I  will  say  here  that  I  have  always  as  strongly  as  pos- 


410  EAST  ANGELS. 

sible  disapproved  of  her  course  in  leaving  you."  He  made 
himself  say  this.  It  was  true,  and  say  it  he  would. 

Lanse  laughed,  and  turned  down  the  brim  of  his  soft  hat 
to  keep  the  sun  from  his  eyes.  "  I'm  not  going  to  lie  about 
it,"  lie  answered.  "  I  would  have  told  you  at  any  time  if 
you  had  asked  me ;  she  couldn't  help  leaving  me." 

Winthrop  stared. 

"It's  a  funny  world,"  Lanse  went  on.  "Come  along  up 
and  get  something  to  eat;  then  we'll  go  off  in  the  canoe, 
and  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story ;  you've  got  to  hear  it  if 
you're  to  help." 

An  hour  later  the  two  men  were  floating  away  from  the 
pier  in  a  small  boat  built  upon  the  model  of  the  Indian's 
birch-bark  canoe.  Lanse,  an  expert  in  this  as  in  almost  all 
kinds  of  out -door  exercise,  wielded  the  paddle  with  ease, 
while  Winthrop  faced  him,  reclining  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat ;  it  could  only  hold  two.  Lightly  it  sped  out  towards 
deep  water,  the  slightest  motion  sent  it  forward ;  its  sides 
were  of  such  slender  thickness  that  the  two  men  could  feel 
the  breathing  of  the  great  soft  stream,  which  had  here  a 
breadth  of  three  miles,  though  in  sight,  both  above  and  be 
low,  it  widened  into  six.  These  broad  water  stretches  were 
tranquil ;  from  shore  to  shore  the  slow,  full  current  swept 
majestically  on  ;  and  even  to  look  across  the  wide,  still  reaches, 
with  the  tropical  forests  standing  thickly  on  their  low  strands, 
was  a  vision  of  peace  for  the  most  troubled  human  soul. 

Kildee  plover  flew  chattering  before  the  canoe  while  they 
were  still  near  land.  Far  above  in  the  blue  a  bald-headed 
eagle  sailed  along.  Lanse  chose  to  go  out  to  the  centre  of 
the  stream — Lanse  never  skirted  the  edge  of  anything ;  reach 
ing  it,  he  turned  southward,  and  they  voyaged  onward  for 
nearly  an  hour. 

He  did  not  appear  disposed  to  begin  his  narrative  imme 
diately  ;  arid  Winthrop  asked  no  questions.  Every  now  and 
then  each  indulged  in  a  retrospective  remark ;  but  these  re 
marks  concerned  themselves  only  with  the  days  of  their  boy 
hood,  they  brought  up  the  old  jokes,  and  called  each  other 
by  the  old  names.  Winthrop,  after  a  while,  branching  off  a 
little,  suggested  that  this  warm  brown  tide,  winding  softly 
through  the  beautiful  low  green  country,  was  something'  ta 


EAST  ANGELS.  411 

remember — on  a  January  day,  say,  in  a  manufacturing  town 
at  the  North,  when  a  raw  wind  was  sweeping  the  streets, 
when  the  horse-cars  were  bumping  along  between  miniature 
hills  of  muddy  ice,  when  all  complexions  were  dubious  and 
harassed,  and  the  constantly  dropping  flakes  of  soot  from 
myriad  chimneys  failed  to  convey  a  suggestion  of  warmth, 
but  rather  brought  up  (to  the  initiated)  a  picture  of  chill 
half-heated  bedrooms,  where  these  same  harassed  complexions 
must  undergo  more  torture  from  soap  and  water  in  the  effort 
to  remove  the  close-clinging  marks  of  the  "  black  snow." 

"Oh,  confound  your  manufacturing  town!"  Lanse  an 
swered. 

"I  can't;  I'm  a  manufacturer  myself,"  was  Winthrop's 
response. 

At  length  Lanse  turned  the  canoe  towards  the  western 
shore.  A  creek  emptied  into  the  river  ut  this  point,  a  creek 
which  had  about  the  breadth  of  the  Thames  at  Westminster; 
Lanse  entered  the  creek.  Great  ragged  nests  of  the  fish- 
hawks  crowned  many  of  the  trees  here,  making  them  resem 
ble  a  group  of  light-houses  at  the  creek's  mouth.  They  met 
an  old  negro  on  a  raft,  who  held  up  a  rattlesnake  which  he 
seemed  to  think  they  would  admire.  "  Fibe  foot  en  eight 
inch,  boss,  en  ferteen  rattles." 

"  That's  African  Joe,"  said  Lanse.  "  I've  already  made  his 
acquaintance;  he  was  born  in  Africa. — You  old  murderer, 
what  do  you  want  for  showing  us  that  poor  reptile  you  have 
put  an  end  to  ?" 

Old  Joe,  a  marvel  of  negro  old  age,  grinned  as  Lanse  tossed 
him  a  quarter.  "  'Gater,  massa,"  he  said,  pointing. 

It  was  a  black  lump  like  the  end  of  a  floating  log, — an  al 
ligator  submerged  all  but  that  inch  or  two  of  head. 

"  That's  the  place  I'm  looking  for,  I  think,"  said  Lanse ; 
"  I  was  up  here  yesterday." 

And  with  two  or  three  strong  strokes  of  the  paddle  he 
sent  the  canoe  round  a  cape  of  lily-pads,  into  the  mouth  of 
a  smaller  creek  which  here  came,  almost  unobserved,  into  the 
larger  one.  It  was  a  stream  narrow  but  deep,  which  took 
them  into  the  forest.  Here  they  floated  over  reflections  so 
perfect  of  the  trees  draped  in  silver  moss  on  shore  that  it 
was  hard  to  tell  where  reality  ended  and  the  picture  began. 


412  EAST  ANGELS. 

Great  turtles  swam  along  down  below,  water-moccasins  slipped 
noiselessly  into  the  amber  depths  from  the  roots  of  the  trees 
as  the  canoe  drew  near ;  alligators  began  to  show  themselves 
more  freely ;  the  boat  floated  noiselessly  over  one  huge  fel 
low  fifteen  feet  long. 

Lanse  was  aroused.  "  I  tell  you,  old  lad,  this  isn't  bad," 
he  said. 

"  I  don't  care  about  it,"  Winthrop  answered ;  "  it's  sen 
sational." 

Over  this  remark  Lanse  indulged  in  a  retrospective  grin. 
"  Old  !"  he  said.  "  You've  been  getting  that  off  ever  since 
you  were  twenty.  "Who  was  it  that  called  Niagara  *  violent?' 
The  joke  is  that,  at  heart,  you  yourself  are  the  most  violent 
creature  I  know." 

"  Oh— talk  about  hearts !"  said  Winthrop. 

The  trees  now  began  to  meet  overhead  ;  when  their  branch 
es  interlaced  so  that  the  shade  was  complete,  Lanse  tied  the 
boat-rope  to  a  bough,  stretched  himself  out  in  his  end  of 
the  boat,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  looked  at  his  companion.  "  Now 
for  the  story,"  he  said.  "I  tell  you  because  I  want  your 
help ;  I  am  "sure  that  Margaret  has  the  highest  opinion  of 
you." 

"  She  has  none  at  all.     She  detests  me." 

"  No !"  said  Lanse,  using  the  word  as  an  exclamation. 
"How  comes  that?  You  must  have  been  very  savage  to 
her?" 

"  I  have  always  been  against  her  about  you." 

"  Has  Aunt  Katrina  been  savage  too  ?" 

"  She  has  given  her  a  home,  at  any  rate." 

"And  a  pretty  one  it  must  have  been,  if  she  has  looked, 
while  about  it,  as  you  look  now,"  Lanse  commented. 

"Never  mind  my  looks.  I  don't  know  that  your  own  are 
any  better.  What  have  you  to  say  ?" 

"One  thing  more,  first.     How  much  has  Margaret  told?" 

"Nothing.     That  is,  nothing  to  me." 

"  I  meant  Aunt  K." 

"  How  should  I  know  ?"  said  Winthrop,  shortly.  Then  he 
made  himself  speak  with  more  truth.  "  Aunt  Katrina  com 
plains  that  Margaret  has  never  said  a  word." 

"Yet  you've  all  been  disapproving  of  her  all  this  time! 


EAST  ANGELS.  413 

Now  I  call  that  a  specimen  of  the  fixed  injustice  so  common 
among  nice  people,"  said  Lanse,  musingly.  He  was  sorry 
for  the  nice  people. 

"Before  you  criticise,  let  us  see  how  well  you  have  be 
haved,"  suggested  his  companion. 

"  Oh,  /  don't  pretend  to  be  a  well  -  regulated  character. 
Let  me  see — I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  the  beginning  to 
make  you  understand.  I  don't  know  whether  you  know  how 
Margaret  was  brought  up  ?  She  had  always  lived  in  the 
country  ;  not  a  village — the  old  Cruger  place  was  three  miles 
from  everywhere ;  there  she  lived  with  her  grandmother  and 
her  grandmother's  friends,  not  a  young  person  among  them ; 
she  hadn't  even  been  to  school — always  a  governess  at  home. 
She  was  onlv  seventeen  when  I  first  saw  her;  we  were  there 
in  the  house  together — Aunt  Katrina's — and  I  was  at  the  time 
more  in  the  dumps  than  I  had  ever  been  in  my  life.  I  had 
just  come  back  from  abroad,  as  yon  know ;  and  the  reason  I 
had  come  back,  which  you  don't  know,  was  because  some 
one  (never  mind  who — not  an  American)  had  gone  off  and 
married  under  my  nose  a  man  with  a  million — several  of  them 
if  you  count  in  French.  As  I  had  expected  to  marry  her 
myself,  you  may  imagine  whether  I  enjoyed  it.  Feeling 
pretty  well  cut  up,  smarting  tremendously,  if  I  must  confess 
it,  it  seemed  to  me,  after  a  while,  that  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad 
idea  to  marry  Margaret  Cruger.  I  couldn't  feel  worse  than 
I  did,  and  maybe  I  might  feel  better,  she  was  very  sweet  in 
her  way  ;  I  don't  pretend  that  I  was  ever  in  love  with  her, 
but  I  liked  her  from  the  first.  I  have  always  had  a  fancy 
for  young  girls,"  pursued  Lanse,  taking  off  his  hat  and  put 
ting  it  behind  his  head  as  a  pillow  ;  "  when  they're  not  for 
ward  (American  girls  are  apt  to  be  forward,  though  without 
in  the  least  knowing  it),  they're  enchanting.  The  trouble  is 
that  they  can't  stay  young  forever;  they  don't  know  any 
thing,  and  of  course  they  have  to  learn,  and  that  process  is 
tiresome ;  it  would  be  paradise  if  a  girl  of  seventeen  could 
sit  down  like  a  woman  of  thirty,  and  paradise  isn't  intended, 
I  suppose,  to  come  just  yet." 

"  Don't  talk  your  French  to  me,"  said  Winthrop  ;  "  I  don't 
admire  it." 

"That's  another  of  your  shams.     Yes,  you  do.     But  it's 


414  EAST  ANGELS. 

perfectly  true  that  a  young  girl  can  no  more  sit  down  with 
grace  than  she  can  listen  with  grace." 

"Yes;  you  want  to  talk." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  don't  want  to,  I  want  to  be  silent ; 
but  I  want  them  to  know  how  to  listen  to  my  silence.  Well, 
I  won't  go  into  the  details.  She  was  so  young — Margaret— 
that  I  easily  made  her  believe  that  I  couldn't  live  without 
her,  that  I  should  go  to  the  bad  direct  unless  she  would  take 
charge  of  me — a  thing  that  is  apt  to  succeed  with  young 
girls  when  they're  conscientious  (as  Margaret  was),  unless  they 
happen  to  care  for  some  one  else ;  Margaret  didn't  care  for 
any  one  else,  and  so  she  was  caught.  We  were  married ;  and 
I  give  you  my  word  I  fully  intended  to  treat  her  as  well  as  I 
knew  how.  But — ill  luck  got  mixed  with  it." 

Here  Lanse  changed  his  position  again,  and  clasping  his 
hands  under  his  head,  gazed  up  at  the  dense  green  above. 
"Let's  hope  a  moccasin  won't  take  a  walk  out  on  one  of 
those  branches  and  fall  down  ;  they  do  it  sometimes,  I  know. 
We  had  not  been  married  long,  Margaret  and  I,  when  the 
other  one  wrote  to  me." 

"  Nice  sort  of  person." 

"Precisely.  But  I  cared  more  about  her  than  I  did  about 
any  one  in  the  world,  and  that  makes  a  difference.  I  thought 
she  wrote  to  me  because  she  couldn't  help  it — in  short,  be 
cause  she  cared  so  much  for  me.  That's  taking.  And  now 
here's  where  ill  luck  took  a  hand.  Did  I  intend  to  let  any 
of  this  in  the  least  touch  Margaret — interfere  with  her?  As 
far  as  possible  from  it;  my  intention  was  that  she  should 
never  know  or  dream  of  it,  it  was  all  to  be  kept  religiously 
from  her.  Why — I  wouldn't  have  had  her  know  it  for  any 
thing,  first  on  her  own  account,  then  on  mine ;  the  wife  of 
Lansing  Harold,"  went  on  Lanse,  smiling  a  little  at  himself, 
yet  evidently  meaning  exactly  what  he  said,  "  must  be  above 
suspicion,  by  which  I  intend  the  verb,  not  the  noun ;  up  to 
thirty,  she  must  be  too  innocent  to  suspect.  But  what  do 
you  suppose  came  next?  By  the  most  extraordinary  chance 
in  the  world  Margaret  herself  got  hold  of  one  of  my  letters 
to — to  the  other  person.  She  came  upon  the  loose  sheets 
by  accident,  and  thought  it  was  something  that  I  must  have 
been  writing  some  time  to  her;  she  never  imagined  that  it  was 


EAST  ANGELS.  415 

to  any  one  else,  or  she  wouldn't  have  read  it,  she  was  punctili 
ousness  itself  in  such  matters ;  but  her  eyes  happened  to  fall 
first  upon  the  middle  sheet,  where  there  was  no  name,  and 
the — '  the  language,'  as  she  afterwards  expressed  it,  made  her 
believe  that  it  was  addressed  to  herself ;  a  man  could  only 
write  in  that  way  to  his  wife,  she  supposed.  But  at  the  end 
she  was  undeceived,  for  there  she  found  the  other  name.  Of 
course  we  had  a  scene  when  I  came  home.  I  was  horribly 
annoyed  by  what  had  happened,  but  I  did  my  best  to  be  nice 
to  her.  I  told  her  that  it  was  a  miserable  accident  in  every 
way,  her  coming  upon  that  letter,  that  I  could  never  forgive 
myself  for  having  left  it  where  I  did ;  I  told  her  that  I  could 
perfectly  understand  that  it  had  been  a  great  shock  to  her — 
a  shock  that  I  was  more  sorry  for  than  she  could  possibly  be. 
But  as  it  had  happened,  we  must  both  make  the  best  of  it, 
arid  her  '  best '  was  simply  to  forget  all  about  it  as  soon  as 
she  could, — it  was  wonderful  how  much  one  could  forget  if 
one  tried;  I  could  assure  her  that  nothing  should  ever  touch 
her  position  as  my  wife,  there  should  be  no  breath  upon  that; 
always  I  should  give  her  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world  the  first 
honor,  the  first  place.  You  see,  it  was  the  best  I  could  do. 
I  couldn't  deny  the  letter;  it  was  in  my  own  handwriting, 
it  even  had  a  date ;  and  it  wasn't  a  letter,  either,  that  you 
could  explain  away.  But  I  couldn't  do  anything  with  her. 
I  don't  mean  that  she  argued  or  combated,  she  seemed  all 
broken  to  pieces ;  she  sat  there  looking  at  me  with  a  sort  of 
wonder  and  horror  combined.  Before  night  she  was  ill — a 
fever.  She  was  ill  three  weeks,  and  I  was  as  nice  to  her  all 
that  time  as  I  possibly  could  be,  I  brought  her  lovely  flowers 
every  day.  As  she  grew  better,  I  hoped  we  were  going  to 
go  on  in  peace ;  certainly  the  last  thing  I  wanted  was  a  quar 
rel  with  her.  But — women  are  bound  to  be  fools !  no  soon 
er  was  she  able  to  sit  up  than  she  took  the  first  chance  to 
ask  me  (there  had  been  a  nurse  about  before)  whether  I  had 
abandoned  that  dreadful  affair.  I  suppose  I  could  have  lied 
to  her,  if  I  was  going  to  do  it,  that  was  the  time.  But,  as  it 
happens,  I  don't  lie,  it  has  never  been  one  of  my  accomplish 
ments.  So  I  told  her  that  she  ought  to  treat  such  things  as 
a  lady  should, — that  is,  not  descend  to  them  ;  and  I  told  her 
furthermore  that  she  ought  to  treat  this  one  as  my  wife 


416  EAST  ANGELS. 

should.  When  I  said  that,  I  remember  she  looked  at  me  as 
if  she  were  in  a  sort  of  stupor ;  you  see,  to  her  sense,  she  was 
treating  it  as  ray  wife  should,"  commented  Lanse,  telling  his 
own  story,  as  he  felt  himself,  with  much  impersonal  fairness. 
"All  this  time,  of  course,  I  had  had  to  postpone  everything; 
she  continued  to  improve,  and  I  took  the  ground  of  saying 
nothing.  When  another  month  had  passed,  and  she  was  per 
fectly  well  again,  I  mentioned  one  day,  carelessly,  and  before 
some  one  else,  that  I  thought  I  should  try  a  little  summer 
trip  of  thirty  days  or  so  across  the  ocean  and  back ;  I 
shouldn't  take  her,  because  she  wasn't  as  fond  of  the  sea  as 
I  was,  and  twenty  of  the  thirty  days  would  be  spent  afloat ; 
she  would  be  much  more  comfortable  at  home  —  we  had 
taken  a  pretty  house  at  New  Rochelle  for  the  year.  She 
didn't  make  any  especial  comment  then,  but  as  soon  as  she 
could  get  me  alone  I  saw  that  it  had  all  been  of  no  use — my 
patience  and  my  waiting;  she  was  determined  to  talk.  Her 
point  was  that  I  must  not  go.  I  am  not  very  yielding,  as 
you  know ;  but  she  was  even  more  obstinate  than  I  was  ;  it 
was  owing  to  the  ideas  she  had  about  such  things,  she  wasn't 
a  Roman  Catholic,  but  she  thought  marriage  a  sacrament — 
almost.  I  got  in  a  few  words  on  that  side  myself,  I  told  her 
that  she  seemed  to  have  a  singular  idea  of  a  wife's  duties ; 
one  of  them  was  generally  supposed  to  be  to  guard  her  hus 
band's  name,  which  was  also  her  own  ;  but,  that  while  / 
wished  to  occasion  no  talk,  no  scandal,  she  was  doing  her 
very  best  to  stir  up  both  by  having  an  open  quarrel  with  me. 
And  then  I  asked  her  what  she  proposed  to  do  ?  I  suppose  I 
looked  ugly.  She  got  up  and  stood  there,  holding  on  to  the 
back  of  a  chair;  *I  must  go  with  you,' she  said.  'I  can't 
take  you,'  I  told  her.  And  then  she  said  that  she  could  fol 
low  me.  That,  I  confess,  put  me  in  a  rage,  I  was  never  an 
grier  in  my  life.  I  imagined  her  appearing  upon  the  scene 
there  in  Paris !  A  pretty  spectacle  I  should  be,  followed 
about  and  tracked  down  by  a  wife  of  that  age — a  wife,  too, 
who  was  acting  solely  from  a  sense  of  duty  ;  with  her  school 
girl  face,  that  was  a  combination  rather  too  ridiculous  for 
any  man  to  stand.  To  cut  the  story  short,  I  left  her  then 
and  there.  That  night  I  slept  at  a  hotel,  and  the  next  day  I 
sailed ;  I  had  changed  my  plan  of  travel,  in  order  that  she 


EAST  ANGELS.  417 

should  not  know  for  some  time  where  I  was;  bat  I  think  I 
frightened  her  sufficiently  about  following  me  before  I  left 
her.  I  not  only  expressly  forbade  it,  but  I  told  her  that  she 
wouldn't  be  received  in  case  she  should  try  it;  there  would 
be  standing  orders  to  that  effect  left  with  the  servants.  I 
should  never  touch  any  more  of  her  money,  I  told  her  (I 
never  have  to  this  day) ;  she  could  set  going  any  story  she 
pleased  about  me,  and  I  wouldn't  contradict^it ;  that  would 
leave  her  very  easy  ;  on  my  side  I  should  simply  say  nothing, 
and  I  should  cause  no  scandal,  she  might  be  sure  of  that. 
So  I  went  off.  On  the  other  side  I  found  a  letter  from  her 
— she  didn't  know  my  address,  but  she  had  sent  it  to  my 
lawyer;  I've  brought  that  letter  along  for  you  to  see,  it  will 
give  you  a  better  idea  of  her,  as  she  was  at  the  time,  than 
any  of  iny  descriptions."  And  he  took  from  his  pocket-book 
an  old  envelope,  and  tossed  it  across. 

Winthrop  opened  the  envelope ;  it  contained  a  small  sheet 
of  paper,  upon  which,  in  a  youthful  immature  handwriting, 
these  words  were  written  : 

"  MY  DEAR  LANSE, — I  have  stayed  here  by  myself  all  day. 
And  I  have  been  very  unhappy.  I  have  not  let  anybody 
know  that  you  were  gone. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  must  have  done  wrong,  and  yet  I  don't 
know  how. 

"Perhaps  yon  will  come  back.  I  shall  hope  that  you  will. 
I  will  wait  here  for  your  answer. 

"I  will  come  to  you  at  any  time  if  —  you  know  what. 
And  I  hope  you  will  soon  send  for  me. 

"  Your  affectionate  wife, 

"  MARGARET." 

"  You  see  there's  no  trace  of  jealousy,"  Lanse  comment 
ed,  in  his  generalizing  way  ;  "  she  wasn't  jealous,  because  she 
wasn't  in  love  with  me  — never  had  been.  Of  course  she 
thought  she  loved  me — she  never  would  have  married  me 
otherwise;  but  the  truth  was  that  at  that  time  she  had  no 
more  conception  of  what  real  love  is  than  a  little  snow 
image :  that  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  had  first  liked 
her.  I've  no  doubt  she  was  horribly  miserable  when  she 

27 


418  EAST  ANGELS. 

wrote  that  letter,  as  she  says  she  W;as.  But  there  was  no 
love  in  her  misery,  it  was  all  duty ;  I  grant  you  that  with 
her  that  was  a  tremendously  strong  feeling.  Well,  I  answer 
ed  her  letter,  I  told  her  she  had  better  go  and  live  with  Aunt 
Katrina  as  before,  that  that  was  the  best  place  for  her.  I 
told  her  that  I  should  stay  where  I  was  for  the  present,  and 
on  no  account  was  she  to  try  to  follow  me;  that  was  the 
one  thing  I  would  not  endure  ;  I  had  to  frighten  her  about 
that,  because  she  had  so  much  obstinacy — steadfastness  if 
you  like  —  that  if  I  had  not  done  so,  and  effectually,  she 
would  certainly  have  started  in  pursuit  —  prayer-book  in 
hand,  poor  child !  She  wrote  to  me  once  more,  repeating 
her  offer  to  come  whenever  I  should  wish  it;  but  I  didn't 
wish  it  then,  and  didn't  answer.  Eight  years  have  passed, 
and  I  haven't  answered  yet.  But  now  I  think  I  shall  try  it." 

Winthrop  had  sat  gazing  at  the  little  sheet,  with  the  faded 
girlish  handwriting.  Hot  feelings  were  surging  within  him, 
he  felt  that  he  must  take  a  firm  hold  of  himself;  this  made 
his  manner  calm.  "What  do  you  want  of  her?"  he  said. 
"  Aunt  Katrina  couldn't  get  on  a  day  without  her." 

"  Aunt  Katrina  would  give  her  up  to  me,"  said  Lanse,  se 
curely.  (And  Winthrop  knew  that  this  was  true.)  "What 
do  I  want  of  her?  I  want  to  have  a  home  of  my  own  again, 
a  place  where  I  can  be  comfortable ;  I  want  to  have  a  place 
where  I  can  keep  all  my  shoes.  I  am  not  as  young  as  I  once 
was ;  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I've  had  one  or  two  pret 
ty  serious  attacks — rheumatism  threatening  the  heart.  It's 
time  to  be  old,  to  take  in  sail ;  I'm  a  reformed  character,  and 
I  don't  sec  why  Margaret  shouldn't  come  and  carry  on  the 
good  work — especially  as  she  has  promised.  The  one  dan 
ger  is  that  she  may  have  begun  to —  But  I  hardly  think 
that." 

"  That  she  may  have  begun  to  hate  you  ?"  said  Winthrop. 
"  Yes,  I  should  think  that  highly  probable."  He  still  held 
the  poor  little  letter,  the  childlike,  bewildered  appeal  of  the 
deserted  young  wife. 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Lanse  answered  ;  "  I  meant  that 
she  might  have  begun  to  care  for  some  one  else ;  really  care, 
you  know.  But  I  don't  believe  it.  If  it  were  only  that  she 
had  begun  to  hate  me,  that  would  be  nothing ;  she  would 


EAST  ANGELS.  419 

think  it  very  wrong  to  hate  me  (though  she  might  not  be 
able  to  help  it),  and  that  would  make  her  come  back  to  me 
all  the  quicker." 

Wirithrop  looked  at  him  from  under  his  tilted  hat — he 
had  tilted  it  forward  over  his  eyes.  "  I  should  think  it 
would  make  you  sick  to  ask  her,"  he  said  —  "sick  with 
shame !" 

"  It  isn't  the  least  shameful,  it's  the  right  thing  to  do,"  re 
sponded  Lanse.  "But  which  side  are  you  on,  Ev?  You 
seem  to  be  all  over  the  field." 

"  Never  mind  which  side  I'm  on.  You.  can't  take  her  np 
and  drop  her  in  that  way." 

"  You've  got  it  mixed.  I  dropped  her  eight  years  ago ; 
now  I'm  taking  her  up  again.  And  if  she  is  as  I  think  she 
is,  she  will  be  glad  to  come." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Winthrop,  with  angry  scorn. 

"  She'll  be  glad,  because  she's  my  wife — she's  a  stickler  for 
that  sort  of  thing.  She  is  a  very  good  woman  ;  that's  the 
advantage  of  having  a  really  good  woman  for  your  wife — 
you  can  rely  upon  her  whether  she  likes  you  or  not — likes 
you  very  much,  I  mean.  But  I  begin  to  think  you  don't 
know  her  as  well  as  I  do,  in  spite  of  the  time  you  have  had." 

"Know  her?  I  don't  know  her  in  the  least!  I  have 
never  known  her — I  see  that  now." 

At  this  moment  they  heard  the  dip  of  an  oar,  and  stopped. 
Coming  down  the  narrow  stream  behind  them,  appeared  a 
rude  craft  manned  by  a  very  black  boy  and  a  very  white 
baby.  The  boat  was  a  long,  rough  dug-out,  and  the  boy  was 
paddling ;  his  passenger,  a  plump  child  of  about  three,  had 
the  bleached  skin  of  the  Florida  cracker,  and  flaxen  hair  of 
the  palest  straw-color.  An  immense  calico  sun-bonnet  lay 
across  its  knee,  and,  after  a  slow  stare  with  twisted  neck  at 
the  two  strangers,  it  lifted  and  put  on  this  penthouse ;  to 
put  it  on  was  probably  its  idea  of  "  manners."  The  pent 
house,  in  fact,  represented  the  principal  part  of  its  attire, 
there  was  nothing  else  but  a  little  red  petticoat. 

But  if  the  passenger  was  dignified,  the  oarsman  was  not ; 
delighted  to  see  anybody,  the  little  darky  had  showed  his 
white  teeth  in  a  perpetual  grin  from  the  moment  the  canoe 
had  appeared  in  sight. 


420  EAST  ANGELS. 

Lanse  always  noticed  children.  "Where  have  you  been, 
Epaminondas?"  he  said,  with  pretended  severity.  "What 
are  you  doing  here  ?" 

Epaminondas,  at  the  first  suggestion  of  conversation,  had 
stopped  paddling.  He  accepted  with  cheerfulness  the  im 
provised  name.  "  Ben  atter  turtles,  boss.  But  I  'ain't  fin' 
none." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  that  young  lady  you  have  with 
you  ?" 

"Gin,"  answered  Epaminondas,  with  an  even  more  exten 
sive  smile  than  before. 

"The  whole  of  it,  I  mean  ;  I  know  there's  more." 

"  Trufe,  boss,  der  sholy  is,"  responded  Epaminondas,  im 
pressed  by  this  omniscience.  "  Gin's  wat  dey  calls  her 
mosely ;  but  Victoryne  John  Mungumry  Gin — dat's  de  hull 
ob  it.  Victoryne  en  John  Mungumry  is  folks  wat  her  ma 
knew  whar  she  come  fum,  up  in  Alabawrn,  en  she  wanted  to 
membunce  'em  someways,  so  she  called  Gin  atter  'em.  En 
Gin — dat's  Virginny — wuz  de  name  ob  her  daddy's  folks, 
dey  tole  me." 

"  I  am  surprised  that  her  family  should  allow  Miss  Mont 
gomery  to  be  out  without  her  nurse,"  Lanse  went  on. 

"  She  'ain't  got  no  nuss,"  Epaminondas  answered.  "  En 
/  hev  to  tote  her  mos'  er  der  time,  en  she's  hebby — she  am 
dat !  En  so  ter-day  I  'lowed  I'd  rudder  take  her  in  de  boat 
a  wiles."  He  looked  anxiously  at  Lanse  as  he  made  this  ex 
planation  ;  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow  of  about  ten,  and  Miss 
Montgomery  was  decidedly  solid. 

"  I'm  inclined  to  think,  my  man,  that  you're  out  without 
leave;  I  advise  you  to  go  home  as  fast  as  you  can.  And 
mind  you  keep  the  boat  straight." 

"  Yas,  boss,"  answered  Epaminondas,  glad  to  escape,  and 
plying  his  paddle  again. 

He  gave  a  "Ki !"  of  delight  as  a  silver  coin  fell  at  his  feet. 
"  Don't  stop  to  pick  it  up  now,"  said  Lanse.  "  Go  on  with 
Miss  Montgomery  ;  restore  her  to  her  parents  as  soon  as  pos 
sible." 

Epaminondas  bent  to  his  oar;  the  two  men  looked  after 
him  as  the  boat  went  on  its  way  towards  the  outer  creek. 

Suddenly,  "  Good  God  !"  cried  Lanse,  springing  to  his  feet. 


EAST  ANGELS.  421 

He  had  to  unloose  the  rope ;  but  he  did  that  in  an  instant, 
and,  seizing  the  paddle,  he  sent  the  canoe  flying  down-stream 
after  the  dug-out. 

Epaminondas,  toiling  at  his  oar,  had  not  gone  thirty  feet 
when  Lanse  had  seen  a  large  moccasin  drop  from  a  branch 
above  directly  into  the  long  narrow  boat  as  it  passed  beneath  ; 
the  creature  fell  midway  between  the  children,  who  occupied 
the  two  ends. 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  little  negro  had  jumped  overboard. 
But  that  was  instinct ;  he  would  not  desert  the  white  child, 
and  swam  on,  holding  by  the  boat's  side  and  screaming 
shrilly. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Montgomery  sat  composedly  in  her  place  ; 
she  did  not  appear  at  all  disturbed. 

Winthrop  had  no  oar,  so  he  could  not  help.  Lanse,  stand 
ing  up,  forced  the  canoe  through  the  water  rapidly,;  but  be 
fore  he  could  bring  it  up  where  he  could  seize  the  child,  the 
little  darky,  who  had  not  ceased  to  swim  round  and  round 
the  drifting  craft,  announced  with  a  yell,  as  his  curly  black 
head  peered  for  one  instant  over  the  side,  that  the  snake  was 
coiling  for  a  spring. 

Then  Lanse  gave  a  mighty  plunge  into  the  stream,  and, 
keeping  himself  up  with  one  hand,  snatched  the  girl  and 
dragged  her  overboard  by  main  force  with  the  other,  hand 
ing  her  in  safety  to  Winthrop,  who  had  taken  the  paddle 
and  kept  the  canoe  along.  Lanse  and  the  little  darky  then 
swam  ashore,  and  stepped  into  the  canoe  again  from  the 
roots  of  a  large  tree,  which  served  them  for  a  landing. 

They  were  both  wet  through,  of  course.  But  Epaminon 
das  was  amphibious,  his  single  garment,  a  pair  of  trousers, 
could  be  as  well  dried  upon  his  small  person  as  upon  a  bush. 
With  Lanse  it  was  different.  But  at  present  Lanse  was  ex 
cited,  nothing  would  do  but  to  go  after  that  snake  which  was 
now  luxuriously  voyaging  down  the  stream  in  a  boat  of  its 
own  ;  taking  the  paddle,  he  sent  the  canoe  in  chase. 

Standing  up  as  he  drew  near,  he  announced  that  the  moc 
casin  was  motionless  in  the  bottom  of  the  dug-out. 

His  next  announcement  was  that  it  was  "rather  a  pretty 
fellow." 

Then,  still  standing  up  and  gazing,  "/  can't  kill  the  poor 


422  EAST  ANGELS. 

creature,"  lie  said;  "I  don't  suppose  he  meant  any  harm 
when  he  dropped  —  had  no  idea  there  was  a  boat  there." 
Sending  the  canoe  towards  the  land  again,  he  went  ashore 
and  found,  after  some  search,  a  long  branch ;  with  this  he 
paddled  back,  and  then,  brandishing  it  at  arm's-length,  he 
tilted  the  dug-out,  by  its  aid,  so  far  over  on  one  side,  that  the 
moccasin,  perceiving  that  the  element  he  preferred  was  con 
veniently  near,  with  silent  swiftness  joined  it.  Through  all 
this  scene,  Miss  Montgomery,  plump  and  dry  —  Lanse  had 
held  her  above  the  water  —  remained  serenely  indifferent; 
she  sat  in  her  sun-bonnet  on  Winthrop's  knee,  and  preserved 
her  dignity  unbroken. 

"Shucks!"  said  Epaminondas  (now  that  the  enemy  had 
departed),  expectorating,  with  an  air  of  experience,  into  the 
stream  ;  "  I  is  seed  'em  twicet  ez  bigger  lots  er  times  !" 

Lanse,  resuming  his  seat,  wiped  his  forehead.  His  leap 
had  been  a  strong  exertion,  and  already  his  face  showed  the 
fatigue ;  he  was  a  heavy  man,  and  out  of  practice  in  such 
gymnastics. 

"  Have  you  any  more  notions  to  carry  out?"  inquired  Win- 
throp.  "  I've  been  spinning  back  and  forth  in  this  boat 
about  as  long  as  I  care  for." 

"  Come,  now,  wasn't  that  a  good  deed?"  asked  Lanse  (Lanse 
always  wanted  praise).  "  I  call  it  brutal  to  kill  a  poor  creat 
ure  simply  because  he's  got  no  legs." 

"You  didn't  happen  to  have  your  revolver  with  you,  I 
suppose,"  Winthrop  answered,  refusing  to  bestow  the  ap 
plause. 

"  Never  carried  one  in  my  life ;  cowardly  things !"  re 
sponded  Lanse,  in  a  disgusted  tone.  He  was  hard  at  work 
paddling,  in  order  to  keep  off  a  chill. 

Epaminondas  was  put  ashore  at  his  own  landing  on  the 
outer  creek,  and  departed  up  a  sandy  path,  leading  Miss 
Montgomery,  his  pockets  unwontedly  heavy  with  coin.  He 
looked  back  as  long  as  he  could  see  them,  throwing  up  and 
waving  his  ragged  straw  hat. 

But  Miss  Montgomery  never  turned ;  she  plodded  steadily 
homeward  on  her  fat  white  legs — all  of  her  that  could  be 
seen  below  the  sun-bonnet. 

Lanse's  efforts  to  avoid  a  chill  were  apparently  successful 


EAST  ANGELS.  423 

that  night.  But  the  next  morning  he  sent  for  "Wintlirop  at 
an  early  hour.  "Wintlirop  found  him  with  a  strange  pallor 
on  his  face,  he  said  he  was  in  great  pain.  A  physician  stay 
ing  in  the  house  was  summoned  ;  it  was  the  rheumatism 
Lanse  had  spoken  of ;  but  this  time  it  did  not  merely  threat 
en  the  heart,  it  had  attacked  it. 

For  twelve  hours  there  was  danger.  Then  there  was  a 
lull.  The  lull  was  followed  by  something  which  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  partial  paralysis  of  the  lower  litnbs.  Lanse's 
head  was  now  clear,  but  he  was  helpless.  The  physician  said 
that  he  could  not  be  moved  at  present;  in  two  weeks  or  so 
he  should  be  better  able  to  name  a  day  for  that. 

To  Winthrop,  in  confidence,  he  said  that  in  two  weeks  or 
so  he  should  be  better  able  to  tell  whether  there  was  a  chance 
that  the  present  benumbed  condition  would  wear  off ;  it  might 
be  that  Lanse  would  never  be  able  to  sit  erect  again. 

"  A  pretty  fix,  isn't  it  ?"  Lanse  said,  on  the  morning  of  the 
second  day,  as,  opening  his  eyes,  he  found  himself  alone  with 
his  cousin.  Apparently  I'm  in  for  it  this  time ;  not  going 
to  die,  but  laid  up  with  a  vengeance.  Well,  the  ship's  fast 
in  port  at  last.  I  suppose  now  you've  no  objection  to  bring 
ing  Margaret  over — provided,  of  course,  she  will  come  ?" 

Great  was  Katrina  Rutherford's  joy  and  triumph  when 
she  heard  that  her  "  boy,"  her  Lanse,  was  so  near  her ;  "  only 
over  on  the  river,  a  short  day's  journey  from  here."  She 
had  "always  known"  that  he  would  come,  and  now  it  was 
proved  that  she  had  been  right ;  she  hoped  they  appre 
ciated  it.  (Her  "they"  meant  Winthrop  and  Margaret.) 
Spare  Margaret  ?  Of  course  she  could  spare  her.  Margaret's 
place  was  with  her  husband  ;  and  especially  now  was  it  her 
place  if  he  were  not  well  (Aunt  Katrina  had  not  been  told 
how  ill  Lanse  was).  It  was  a  great  mistake,  besides,  to 
suppose  that  Margaret  was  so  necessary  to  her;  Margaret 
was  not  in  the  least  necessary,  that  was  one  of  their  fancies ; 
Celcstine  was  much  more  useful ;  Looth  too.  But  the  point 
now  was,  not  to  talk  about  who  was  useful,  the  point  was  to 
have  Margaret  go;  what  was  she  waiting  for,  Aunt  Katrina 
would  like  to  be  informed. 

Winthrop,  upon  reaching  East  Angels,  had  asked  for  Mar 
garet. 


424  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said ;  "  it  won't  take  long, 
but  we  mustn't  be  interrupted.  Any  empty  room  will  do." 

His  manner  had  changed ;  he  did  not  wait  for  her  answer, 
but  led  the  way  himself  across  the  hall  to  the  "  boudoir"  of 
the  Old  Madam,  now  never  used ;  nothing  had  been  altered 
there  since  the  Old  Madam's  departure,  even  Mrs,  Thome, 
with  her  persistent  desire  to  make  everything  serve  some 
present  use,  had  left  this  room  untouched. 

Winthrop  closed  the  door,  they  stood  there  among  the 
Old  Madam's  stiff  chairs;  everything  was  covered  with  em 
broidery,  her  own  work ;  there  was  a  fierce-looking  portrait 
of  her  on  the  wall. 

"  Lanse  is  here,"  said  Winthrop ;  "  I  mean  over  on  the 
river.  He  is  ill.  He  wants  you  to  come  to  him." 

At  his  first  words  Margaret  had  given  a  great  start.  For 
a  moment  she  did  not  speak.  Then  she  stammered,  "  Did 
you  say — did  you  say  he  was  ill  ?"  She  spoke  almost  inau- 
dibly. 

"  It's  something  like  paralysis.  I  don't  know  whether  it's 
really  that ;  but  at  any  rate  he's  helpless." 

"  Has  he  asked  for  me  ?" 

"  He  has  sent  me  to  bring  you." 

"Did  he  give  you  a  letter — a  note?" 

"  No ;  he  told  me  to  bring  you." 

"Are  you  sure  he  told  you  that?" 

"  Good  heavens !  if  I  were  not  sure  I  should  be  a  great 
deal  better  off.  Why  do  you  keep  asking  me  ?  Isn't  it  bad 
enough  for  me  to  have  to  say  it  at  all  ?  But  he  is  ill,  and  that 
makes  everything  different.  I  couldn't  have  stood  it  other 
wise." 

"Stood—" 

"  Stood  your  going  to  him." 

"  I  must  go  to  him  if  he  is  ill." 

"Ill — yes;  that's  the  only  thing  that — "  He  stopped,  and 
stood  looking  at  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  very  ill." 

"Yes,  he  is  very  ill.  But  I'm  not  thinking  about  Lanse 
now.  I  know  everything,  Margaret — everything  except  why 
you  have  wished,  why  you  have  been  determined,  that  I 
should  think  of  you  in  the  way  I  have, — that  is,  with  such 


EAST  ANGELS.  425 

outrageous,  such  cruel  wrong.  Lanse  has  told  me  the  whole 
story  of  his  leaving  you,  not  your  leaving  him.  And  before 
that,  Garda  had  told  me  what  really  happened  that  afternoon 
in  the  woods.  Why  have  you  treated  me  in  this  way? 
Why  ?" 

Margaret,  whiter  than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  stood  before 
him,  her  hands  tightly  clasped.  She  looked  like  a  person 
strained  up  to  receive  a  blow. 

"If  you  could  only  know  how  I  feel  when  I  think  what 
yon  have  been  through,  and  what  the  truth  really  was,"  Win- 
throp  went  on ;  "  when  I  remember  my  own  stupidity,  and 
dense  obstinacy,  all  those  years.  I  can  never  atone  for  that, 
Margaret ;  never." 

Lanse' s  wife  put  out  her  hand,  like  a  person  who  feels  her 
way,  as  she  went  towards  the  door.  "Don't  stop  me,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  cannot  talk  now." 

Her  voice  was  so  strained  and  husky  that  he  hardly  knew 
it. 

She  went  hastily  out. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LANSING  HAROLD  was  unable  to  move  from  his  bed,  or  in 
his  bed,  for  a  number  of  weeks.  During  much  of  this  time, 
also,  he  suffered  from  severe  pain. 

Dr.  Kirby  assured  Aunt  Katrina  that  the  pain  was  a  fa 
vorable  symptom  ;  it  indicated  that  there  was  no  torpor ; 
and  with  time,  patience,  and  self-denial,  therefore,  there 
would  be  hope  of  a  cure. 

"Lanse  isn't  patient,"  Aunt  Katrina  admitted.  "But  I 
have  always  thought  him  extremely  self-denying ;  sec  how 
he  has  allowed  Margaret,  for  instance,  to  do  as  she  pleased." 
For  Aunt  Katrina  now  regarded  the  Doctor  as  an  intimate 
personal  friend. 

The  Doctor  went  over  to  see  Lanse  three  times  a  week, 
Winthrop's  horses  taking  him  to  the  river  and  bringing  him 
back.  On  the  other  days  the  case  was  intrusted  to  the  su 
pervision  of  the  local  practitioner,  or  rather  to  his  super- 


426  EAST  ANGELS. 

audition,  for  as  Lanse,  after  the  first  interview,  refused  to 
see  him  again  (he  called  him  a  water-wagtail),  Margaret  was 
obliged  to  describe  as  well  as  she  could  to  the  baffled  man 
the  symptoms  and  general  condition  of  his  patient — a  pa 
tient  who  was  as  impatient  as  possible  with  every  one,  in 
cluding  herself. 

But  save  for  this  small  duty,  Margaret  had  none  of  the  re 
sponsibilities  of  a  nurse ;  two  men  were  in  attendance.  She 
had  sent  to  Savannah  for  them,  Lanse  having  declared  that 
he  infinitely  preferred  having  men  about  him — "I  can  swear 
at  them,  you  know,  when  the  pain  nips  me.  I  can't  swear  at 
you  yet — you're  too  much  of  a  stranger."  This  he  brought 
out  in  the  scowling  banter  which  he  had  used  when  speak 
ing  to  her  ever  since  her  arrival.  The  scowl,  however,  came 
from  his  pain. 

He  was  able  to  move  only  his  head ;  in  addition  to  the 
suffering,  the  confinement  was  intolerably  irksome  to  a  man 
of  his  active  habits  and  fondness  for  out-door  life.  Under 
the  course  of  treatment  prescribed  by  Dr.  Kirby  he  began 
to  improve ;  but  the  improvement  was  slow,  and  he  made  it 
slower  by  his  unwillingness  to  submit  to  rules.  At  the  end 
of  two  months,  however,  lie  was  able  to  use  his  hands  and 
arms  again,  they  could  raise  him  to  a  sitting  position  ;  the 
attacks  of  pain  came  less  frequently,  and  when  they  did 
come  it  was  at  night.  This  gave  him  his  days,  and  one  of 
the  first  uses  he  made  of  his  new  liberty  was  to  have  him 
self  carried  in  an  improvised  litter  borne  by  negroes,  who 
relieved  each  other  at  intervals,  to  a  house  which  he  had 
talked  about,  when  able  to  talk,  ever  since  he  was  stricken 
down.  This  house  was  not  in  itself  an  attractive  abode. 
But  Lanse  violently  disliked  being  in  a  hotel ;  he  had  no 
ticed  the  place  before  his  illness,  and  thinking  of  it  as  he 
lay  upon  his  bed,  he  kept  declaring  angrily  that  at  least  lie 
should  not  feel  "  hived  in  "  there.  The  building,  bare  and 
solitary,  stood  upon  a  narrow  point  which  jutted  sharply 
into  the  river,  so  that  its  windows  commanded  as  uninter 
rupted  a  view  up  and  down  stream  as  that  enjoyed  by  the 
little  post-office  at  the  end  of  the  pier;  it  had  the  look  of  a 
signal-station. 

It  had  not  always  been  so  exposed.     Once  it  was  an  em- 


EAST  ANGELS.  427 

bowered  Florida  residence,  shaded  by  many  trees,  clothed  in 
flowering  vines. 

But  its  fate  was  to  be  purchased  at  the  close  of  the  war 
by  a  northerner,  who,  upon  taking-  possession,  had  immedi 
ately  stripped  the  old  mansion  of  all  its  blossoming  green 
ery,  had  cut  down  the  stately  trees  which  stood  near,  had 
put  in  a  dozen  new  windows,  and  had  then  painted  the  whole 
structure  a  brilliant,  importunate  white.  This  process  he 
called  "  making  it  wholesome." 

This  northerner,  not  having  succeeded  in  teaching  the 
southern  soil  how  to  improve  itself,  had  returned  to  the  more 
intelligent  lands  of  colder  climates;  he  was  obliged  to  leave 
his  house  behind  him,  and  he  contemplated  with  hope  the 
possibility  of  renting  it  "  for  a  water-cure."  Why  a  water- 
cure  no  one  but  himself  knew.  He  was  a  man  haunted  by 
visions  of  water-cures. 

Lansing  Harold  had  no  intention  of  trying  hydropathy, 
unless  the  wide  view  of  the  river  from  all  his  windows  could 
be  called  that.  But  he  said  that  if  he  were  there,  at  least  he 
should  not  feel  "  jostled." 

Jostled  he  certainly  was  not,  he  and  his  two  attendants, 
Margaret  and  the  colored  servants  she  had  with  some  diffi 
culty  obtained,  had  much  more  the  air  of  Robinson  Crusoes 
and  Fridays  on  their  island  ;  for  the  hotel,  which  was  the 
nearest  house,  was  five  miles  distant,  and  not  in  sight,  and 
the  river  was  here  so  broad  that  only  an  occasional  smoke 
told  that  there  were  abodes  of  men  opposite  on  the  low  hazy 
shore. 

Once  established  in  his  new  quarters,  Lanse  advanced  rap 
idly  towards  a  more  endurable  stage  of  existence.  He  was 
still  unable  to  move  his  legs ;  but  he  could  now  bear  being 
lifted  into  a  canoe,  and,  once  in,  with  a  cushion  behind  him, 
he  could  paddle  himself  over  the  smooth  water  with  almost 
as  much  ease  as  ever.  He  sent  for  a  canoe  which  was  just 
large  enough  to  hold  him  ;  boat  and  occupant  seemed  like 
one  person,  so  perfectly  did  the  small  craft  obey  the  motion 
of  his  oar.  One  of  his  men  was  always  supposed  to  accom 
pany  him  ;  the  two  boats  generally  started  together  from  the 
little  home  pier;  but  Lanse  soon  invented  a  way  of  ordering 
his  follower  to  "wait"  for  him  at  this  point  or  that,  while 


428  EAST  ANGELS. 

ho  took  "a  run"  up  some  creek  that  looked  inviting.  The 
"run"  usually  proved  the  main  expedition  of  the  day,  and 
the  "  waiting  "  would  be  perhaps  five  hours  long, — the  two 
attendants  could  not  complain  of  overwork;  they  soon 
learned,  however,  to  go  to  sleep  comfortably  in  the  "bottom 
of  the  boat.  Oftenest  of  all,  Lanse  and  his  canoe  went  up 
the  Juana ;  the  Juana  came  from  the  Monnlungs  Swamp ; 
as  the  spring  deepened,  and  all  the  flowers  came  out,  Lanse 
and  his  little  box  went  floating  up  to  the  Monnlungs  almost 
every  day. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  had  not  seen  her  "  boy ;"  he  could  not 
yet  endure  the  motion  of  any  carriage,  even  the  easiest,  across 
the  long  miles  of  pine  barren  that  lay  between  the  river  and 
East  Angels,  and  it  would  require  a  brigade  or  two  of  ne 
groes,  so  he  said,  to  carry  him  all  that  distance  in  his  litter. 
As  soon  as  he  should  feel  himself  able  to  undertake  so  long 
a  journey,  he  promised  to  go  by  steamer  to  the  mouth  of  the 
St.  John's;  here  the  JBmperadora  could  meet  him  and  take 
him  southward  by  sea  to  the  harbor  of  Gracias,  thence  down 
the  lagoon  to  the  landing  of  East  Angels  itself. 

Aunt  Katrina  was  therefore  waiting.  But  this  was  a  con 
dition  of  things  which  somebody  was  very  apt  to  be  enjoy 
ing  where  Lanse  was  concerned.  Lanse  had  a  marked  con 
tempt  for  what  he  called  a  "  panting  life."  Under  these 
circumstances,  as  he  never  panted  himself,  there  was  apt  to 
be  somebody  else  who  was  panting ;  by  a  little  looking  about 
one  could  have  found,  almost  every  day,  several  persons  who 
had  the  reverse  side  of  his  leisurely  tastes  to  bear. 

Aunt  Katrina,  in  bearing  hers,  at  least  had  her  Betty  ;  now 
that  Margaret  was  absent,  this  good  soul  remained  constant 
ly  at  East  Angels,  not  returning  to  her  home  at  all.  She  led 
a  sort  of  camping-out  existence,  however,  for  dear  Kate  nev 
er  asked  her  to  bring  down  a  trunk  and  make  herself  com 
fortable ;  dear  Kate  always  took  the  tone  that  her  friend 
would  return  home,  probably,  "  about  the  day  after  to-mor 
row."  Betty,  therefore,  had  with  her  only  her  old  carpet 
bag,  which,  though  voluminous,  had  yet  its  limits;  she  was 
constantly  obliged  to  contrive  secret  methods  of  getting  nec 
essary  articles  down  from  Gracias.  She  lived  in  this  make 
shift  manner  for  a  long  stretch  of  weeks,  heroically  wearing 


EAST  ANGELS.  429 

her  best  gown  all  the  time,  because  to  have  sent  for  the  sec 
ond  best  \vould  have  appeared  to  dear  Kate  like  preparation 
for  a  longer  visit  than  she  seemed  to  think  she  should  at 
present  require. 

Every  day  dear  Kate  wrote  a  little  note  of  affectionate  in 
quiry  to  Lanse.  These  notes  were  piled  up  in  a  particular 
place  in  the  house  on  the  river  ;  after  the  first  three  or  four, 
Lanse  never  read  them.  About  twice  a  week  Margaret  would 
take  it  upon  herself  to  reply  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Rutherford 
would  say,  "As  though  I  wanted  Margaret  Cruger'  s  an 
swers!"  She  explained  to  Betty  that  Margaret  purposely 
kept  Lanse  from  writing.  And  then  Betty  would  shake  her 
head  slowly  with  her  lips  pursed  up,  but  without  venturing 
further  answer;  for  she  had  already  got  herself  into  trouble 
with  Katrina  by  expatiating  warmly  upon  the  "great  com 
fort"  it  must  be  to  "poor  Mr.  Harold"  to  have  his  wife 
with  him  once  more. 

"  Nothin      of   the    sort  !"    had    been   Katrina's  brief  re 


sponse 


Such  a  comfort  to  her,  then,  poor  dear,  to  be  able  to  de 
vote  herself  to  him  in  this  time  of  trial." 

"Margaret  devote  herself!" 

"  Well,  at  least,  dear  Kate,  it  must  be  a  great  comfort  to 
you  to  have  them  together  again,  as  they  ought  to  be,  of 
course,"  pursued  Betty,  hopefully.  "  It  may  be  —  who  knows? 
—  probably  it  will  be  without  doubt,  the  beginning  of  a  true 
reconciliation,  a  true  home." 

"True  fiddle-sticks  !  It  shouldn't  be,  then,  in  my  opinion, 
even  if  it  could  be  ;  Margaret  Cruger  has  been  much  too  le 
niently  dealt  with.  After  deserting  her  husband  as  she  has 
done  entirely  all  these  years,  she  shouldn't  have  been  taken 
back  so  easily,  she  should  have  been  made  to  go  down  on  her 
knees  before  he  forgave  her." 

"  Dear  me  !  do  you  really  think  so  ?"  said  Betty,  dismayed 
by  this  picture.  "  And  Mrs.  Harold  has  so  much  sweet  dig 
nity,  too." 

"It  should  be  stripped  from  her  then,  it's  all  hum  ;  what 
right  has  Margaret  Cruger  to  such  an  amount  of  dignity? 
Is  she  Alexandra,  Princess  of  Wales,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"Do  you  know,  I  have  always  thought  she  looked  quite  a 


430  EAST  ANGELS. 

deal  like  her,"  exclaimed  Betty,  delighted  with  this  coinci 
dence. 

But  Katrina's  comparison  had  been  an  impersonal  one,  she 
was  not  thinking  of  the  fair  graceful  Princess  of  the  Danes. 
"My  patience!  Elizabeth  Gwinnet,  how  dull  you  are  some 
times  !"  she  exclaimed,  closing  her  eyes  with  a  groan. 

Elizabeth  Gwinnet  agreed  that  she  was  dull,  agreed  with 
an  unresentful  laugh.  Katrina's  epithets  were  a  part  of  the 
vagaries  of  her  illness,  of  course ;  if  she,  Betty,  was  sure  of 
anything  in  this  world,  she  was  sure  that  she  was  an  enor 
mous  comfort  to  her  poor  dear  Kate.  And  under  those  cir 
cumstances  one  could  agree  to  anything. 

While  helpless  and  in  pain,  Lansing  Harold  had  been  en 
tirely  absorbed  in  his  own  condition ;  even  Margaret's  ar 
rival  he  had  noticed  but  slightly.  This  strong,  dark  man  took 
his  illness  as  an  extraordinary  dispensation,  a  tragic  miracle ; 
he  was  surprised  that  Dr.  Kirby  was  not  more  agitated,  he 
was  surprised  that  his  two  attendants,  when  they  came,  did 
not  evince  a  deeper  concern.  Surely  it  was  a  case  unprece 
dented,  terrible ;  surely  no  one  had  ever  had  such  an  ordeal 
before.  Not  once  did  he  emerge  from  his  own  personality 
and  look  upon  his  condition  as  part  of  the  common  lot ; 
Lanse,  indeed,  had  never  believed  that  he  belonged  to  the 
common  lot. 

He  announced  to  everybody  that  Fate  was  treating  him 
with  frightful  injustice.  Why  should  he  be  maimed  and 
shackled  in  this  way — he,  a  man  who  had  always  led  .a  wholly 
simple,  natural  life?  He  had  never  shut  himself  up  in  an 
office,  burned  his  eyes  out  over  law  papers,  or  narrowed  his 
chest  over  ledgers ;  he  had  never  sacrificed  his  liberty  in  the 
sordid  pursuit  of  money-getting.  On  the  contrary,  he  had 
admired  all  beautiful  things  wherever  they  were  to  be  found, 
he  had  breathed  the  fresh  air  of  heaven,  had  seen  all  there 
was  of  life  and  nature,  and  enjoyed  it  all  in  a  full,  free,  sane 
way.  It  was  monstrous,  it  was  ridiculous,  to  strike  at  him  j 
strike,  and  welcome,  at  the  men  who  kept  their  windows 
down  !  Thus  he  inveighed,  thus  he  protested,  and  all  in  per 
fectly  good  faith ;  Lanse  believed  of  himself  exactly  what  he 
said. 

But  once  established  in  a  house  of  his  own,  and  able  to 


EAST  ANGELS.  431 

float  about  on  the  river,  promptly  his  good-humor  came  back 
to  him  ;  for  Lanse,  while  not  in  the  least  amiable,  had  always 
had  an  abundance  of  good-humor.  He  began  to  laugh  again, 
he  began  to  tell  Margaret  stories  connected  with  his  life 
abroad ;  Lanse's  stories,  though  the  language  was  apt  to  be 
as  condensed  as  that  of  telegraphic  despatches,  were  invaria 
bly  good. 

There  had  been  no  formal  explanations  between  these  two, 
no  serious  talk.  Lanse  hated  serious  talk;  and  as  for  expla 
nations,  as  he  had  never  in  his  life  been  in  the  habit  of 
giving  them,  it  was  not  likely  that  he  was  going  to  begin 
now.  When  Margaret  first  arrived,  and  he  could  scarcely 
see  her  from  pain,  he  had  managed  to  say,  "  Oh,  you're  back? 
glad  to  see  you  " — as  though  she  had  left  him  but  the  week 
before  —  and  this  matter-of-course  tone  he  had  adhered  to 
ever  since ;  it  was  the  easier  since  his  wife  showed  no  desire 
to  alter  it. 

He  required  no  direct  services  from  her,  his  men  did  every 
thing.  As  he  grew  better,  he  gave  her  the  position  of  a  com 
rade  whom  it  was  a  pleasure  to  meet  when  he  came  (in  his 
wheeled  chair)  to  the  parlor  in  the  evening ;  he  thanked  her 
gallantly  for  being  there.  In  this  way  they  lived  on,  Mar 
garet  had  been  for  nine  or  ten  weeks  under  the  same  roof 
with  him  before  he  made  any  allusion  to  their  personal  re 
lations  ;  even  then  it  was  only  a  remark  or  two,  uttered  easi 
ly,  and  as  though  he  had  happened  to  think  of  it  just  then. 
The  remarks  embodied  the  idea  that  the  "interruption" 
(that  was  what  he  called  it)  which  had  occurred  in  their  life 
together  should  be  left  undiscusscd  between  them ;  it  had 
happened,  let  it  therefore  remain  "  happened ;"  they  couldn't 
improve  it  by  chattering  about  it  (an  illusion  of  weak  minds), 
but  they  could  take  up  the  threads  again  where  they  had  left 
them,  and  go  on  without  any  "  bother." 

Later,  he  added  a  few  words  more ;  they  were  not  taking 
up  the  threads,  after  all,  just  where  they  had  left  them,  but 
in  a  much  better  place  ;  for  now  they  were  relieved  from  any 
necessity  for  being  sentimental.  He  admired  her  greatly,  ho 
didn't  mind  telling  her  that  she  had  grown  infinitely  more 
interesting,  as  well  as  handsomer;  but  his  having  remained 
away  from  her  as  long  as  he  had,  and  of  his  own  accord,  dc- 


432  EAST  ANGELS. 

barred  him,  of  course,  from  expecting  personal  affection  from 
her,  at  least  at  present;  he  certainly  didn't  expect  it,  she 
might  rest  secure  about  that;  on  the  other  hand,  he  didn't 
believe,  either — no,  not  in  the  least — that  she  had  broken 
her  heart  very  deeply  about  him.  There  was  no  better  foun 
dation  than  this  state  of  affairs  for  the  most  comfortable  sort 
of  years  together,  if  she  would  look  at  it  in  the  right  way. 
What  was  the  cause  of  most  of  the  trouble  between  hus 
bands  and  wives  nowadays  ? — by  "  nowadays  "  he  meant  in 
modern  times,  since  women  had  been  allowed  to  complain. 
Their  being  so  foolish,  wasn't  it?  on  one  side  or  the  other, 
as  to  wish  to  absorb  each  other,  control  each  other,  in  a  pet 
ty,  dogmatic,  jealous  sort  of  way.  Now  in  their  case  there 
would  not  be  any  clashing  of  that  sort;  when  people  had 
lived  apart  as  they  had,  voluntarily  and  contentedly,  for  eight 
years,  they  must  at  least  have  got  out  of  the  habit  of  asking 
prying  questions,  of  expecting  a  report  of  everything  that 
happened,  of  trying  to  dictate  and  govern  ;  as  to  jealousy,  it 
would  be  rather  late  in  the  day  to  bogin  that. 

These  were  the  only  approaches  Lanse  had  made  towards 
a  discussion  of  intimate  topics.  The  reserve  was  not  so  re 
markable  in  him  as  it  might  have  been  in  another  man,  for 
Lanse  seldom  talked  on  intimate  topics  with  anybody ;  his 
principle,  so  far  as  it  could  be  gathered  from  his  life,  ap 
peared  to  have  been  to  allow  himself,  in  actual  fact  (quiet 
fact),  the  most  radical  liberty  of  action,  while  at  the  same 
time  in  speech,  in  tastes,  in  general  manner,  he  remained  firm 
ly,  even  aggressively,  a  conservative  ;  Lanse's  "  manner  "  had 
been  much  admired.  Always,  so  he  would  have  said,  he  be 
haved  "as  a  gentleman  should,"  which  had  seemed  to  mean 
(according  to  his  own  idea  of  it)  that  he  had  no  local  views 
of  anything,  that  he  was  fond  of  the  fine  arts  and  good  guns, 
that  he  had  a  taste  for  ablutions  and  fresh  air,  for  laced  shoes 
and  shooting-jackets,  and  that  he  never  (it  had  not  happened 
since  his  early  youth,  at  least)  lost  control  of  himself  through 
drink.  All  this  went  perfectly  with  his  apparent  frankness. 
It  also  went  perfectly  with  his  real  reserves. 

On  the  occasions  when  he  had  said  his  few  words  to  Mar 
garet,  he  had  given  her  no  chance  to  reply ;  he  had  made  his 
remarks  as  he  took  up  a  book.  Lanse  was  sure  that  he  read 


EAST  ANGELS.  433 

a  great  deal,  that  he  was  very  fond  of  reading ;  in  reality  he 
read  almost  nothing,  he  only  turned  to  reading  as  a  last  re 
sort  ;  he  was  barbarically  ignorant  regarding  the  authors  of 
his  day,  he  liked  best  personal  memoirs  and  letters  of  the 
last  ce'ntury  ;  when  these  failed  him,  he  reread  Fielding — 
fortunately  Fielding  was  inexhaustible. 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  this.  But  one  evening  even 
Fielding  palled. 

It  was  when  they  had  been  for  nearly  two  months  in  the 
house  on  the  river.  He  had  been  out  during  most  of  the 
afternoon  in  his  canoe ;  his  two  attendants  had  now  estab 
lished  him  upon  his  sofa,  placed  everything  which  they 
thought  he  might  want  within  his  reach,  had  adjusted  his 
reading  lamp  (he  had  announced  that  he  was  going  to  read), 
and  had  then  left  him.  They  were  to  return  at  ten  o'clock 
and  help  him  to  bed ;  for  Lanse  was  obliged  to  keep  early 
hours,  the  night  was  the  dangerous  time,  and  one  of  the  men 
always  slept  on  a  cot  bed  in  the  room  with  him,  so  as  to  be 
within  call. 

Margaret  was  sitting  near  the  larger  table,  where  there  was 
a  second  lamp ;  she  was  sewing.  Having  thrown  down  his 
volume,  with  the  sudden  realization  (it  came  to  him  occa 
sionally)  that  he  knew  every  word  of  it  before  beginning, 
Lanse  sat  among  his  cushions,  watching  her  hand  come  and 
go. 

"You  are  always  sewing  on  such  long  things!"  he  said. 
"  What  is  the  use  of  your  doing  that  sort  of  work  nowadays, 
when  there  are  sewing-machines?" 

"  That's  like  the  American  who  asked,  in  Venice,  what  was 
the  use  of  people's  sketching  there  nowadays,  when  there 
were  photographs  ?" 

"  Oh,  your  seam  is  a  work  of  art,  is  it  ?"  said  Lanse.  He 
was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  took  up  an  old  grievance. 
"  Evert  is  abominably  selfish  not  to  come  over  here  oftener. 
He  might  just  as  well  come  over  and  stay  ;  do  you  know  any 
earthly  reason  why  he  shouldn't?" 

"  I  suppose  he  thinks  he  ought  not  to  leave  Aunt  Katrina 
— I  mean  for  any  length  of  time." 

"  lie  comes  for  no  length,  long  or  short.  Aunt  Katrina  \ 
I  thought  you  said  she'd  got  a  lot  of  people  ?" 

28 


434  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Only  Mrs.  Carew." 

"Mrs. Carew  and  five  or  six  servants;  that's  enough  in  all 
conscience.  I  shouldn't  care  in  the  least  about  Evert  if  it 
weren't  for  the  evenings,  they're  confoundedly  long,  you 
must  admit  that  they  are — for  a  person  who  doesn't  sew 
seams;  if  I  had  Ev  here  I  could  at  least  beat  him  at  check 
ers, — that  would  be  something." 

Checkers  was  the  only  game  Lanse  would  play,  he  hated 
games  generally.  His  method  of  playing  this  one  was  hope 
lessly  bad.  That  made  no  difference  in  his  being  convinced 
that  it  was  excellent.  He  blustered  over  it  always. 

Margaret  had  not  answered.  After  a  while,  still  idly 
watching  her  hand  come  and  go,  Lanse  began  to  laugh. 
"  No,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  really  is,  Madge ;  I  know  it  as 
well  as  if  he  had  drawn  up  a  formal  indictment  and  signed 
his  name ;  he's  all  off  with  me  on  account  of  the  way  I've 
treated  you." 

She  started;  but  she  kept  on  taking  her  stitches. 

"Yes.  What  do  you  say  to  my  having  told  him  the 
whole  story  —  just  what  really  happened,  and  without  a 
shade  of  excusing  myself  in  any  way  ?  Don't  you  call  that 
pretty  good  of  me?  But  I  found  out,  too,  what  I  didn't 
know  before — that  you  yourself  have  never  said  a  word  all 
this  time  either  to  him  or  to  Aunt  Katrina ;  that  you  have 
told  nothing.  I  call  that  pretty  good  of  you ;  I  dare  say, 
in  the  mean  while,  Aunt  Katrina  has  led  you  a  life !" 

"  I  haven't  minded  that — she  didn't  know — " 

"  It  was  really  very  fine  of  you,"  said  Lanse,  appreciativc- 
lv,  after  a  moment  or  two  of  silence,  during  which  he  had 
seemed  to  review  her  course,  and  to  sincerely  admire  it.  "  It 
would  have  been  so  easy  to  have  considered  it  your  duty  to 
tell,  to  have  called  the  telling  'setting  yourself  right;'  ev 
erybody  would  have  been  on  your  side — would  have  taken 
your  part.  But  I  can't  say,  after  all,  that  I'm  surprised,"  he 
went  on.  "I  have  always  had  the  most  perfect  confidence 
in  you,  Madge.  If  I  hadn't,  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  easy, 
of  course,  about  going  away  ;  but  I  knew  I  could  leave  you, 
I  knew  I  could  trust  you;  I  knew  you  would  always  be  the 
perfect  creature  you  have  shown  yourself  to  be." 

"  I'm  not  perfect  at  all,"  answered  Margaret,  throwing  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  435 

work  down  with  a  movement  that  was  almost  fierce.  "  Don't 
talk  to  me  in  that  way." 

"  There !  no  need  to  flash  out  so ;  remember  I'm  only  a 
cripple,"  responded  Lanse,  amiably.  He  sat  there  stroking 
his  short  beard  with  his  strong,  well-shaped  hand,  looking  at 
her,  as  he  did  so,  with  some  curiosity. 

She  rose.  "  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  before  I 
go  ?"  And  she  began  to  fold  up  her  work. 

"  Oh,  don't  go !  that's  inhuman ;  it's  only  a  little  after 
nine  —  there's  nearly  an  hour  yet  before  the  executioners 
come.  I  didn't  mean  to  vex  you,  Madge ;  really  I  didn't. 
I  know  perfectly  that  you  have  done  what  you  did,  behaved 
as  you  have — so  admirably  (you  must  excuse  my  saying  it 
again) — to  please  yourself,  not  me;  you  did  it  because  you 
thought  it  right,  and  you  don't  want  my  thanks  for  it ;  you 
don't  even  want  my  admiration,  probably  you  haven't  a  very 
high  opinion  of  my  admiration.  I  don't' condole  with  you 
— you  may  have  noticed  that;  the  truth  is,  you  have  had 
your  liberty,  you  have  been  rid  of  me,  and  there  has  been 
no  disagreeable  gossip  about  it.  If  you  had  loved  me,  there 
would  have  been  the  grief  and  all  that  to  consider.  But 
there  has  been  no  grief;  you  probably  know  now,  though 
you  didn't  then,  that  you  never  seriously  cared  for  me  at 
all ;  of  course  you  thought  you  did." 

Margaret  was  standing,  her  folded  work  in  her  hand,  ready 
to  leave  the  room.  "  I  should — I  should  have  tried,"  she 
answered,  her  eyes  turned  away. 

"  Tried  ?  Of  course  you  would  have  tried,  poor  child," 
responded  Lanse,  laughing.  "  I  should  have  had  that  spec 
tacle  !  You  were  wonderfully  good,  you  had  a  great  sense 
of  duty ;  you  really  married  me  from  duty — because  I  told 
you  that  I  should  go  to  the  bad  without  yon,  and  you  be 
lieved  it,  and  thought  you  must  try ;  and  you  mistook  the 
interest  you  felt  in  me  on  that  account  for  affection — a  very 
natural  mistake  at  your  age.  Never  mind  all  that  now,  I 
only  want  you  to  admit  that  I  might  have  been  worse,  I 
might  have  been  brutal,  tyrannical,  in  petty  ways,  I  might 
have  been  a  pig;  instead  of  leaving  you  as  I  did,  I  might 
have  stayed  at  home — and  made  you  wish  that  I  had  left! 
Even  now  I  scarcely  touch  your  personal  liberty ;  true,  I  ask 


436  EAST  ANGELS. 

you  to  keep  house  for  me,  set  up  a  home  and  make  me  com 
fortable  again  ;  but  outside  of  that  I  leave  you  very  free, 
you  shall  do  quite  as  you  please.  Luckily  we've  got  money 
enough  —  that  is,  you  have  —  not  to  be  forced  to  sacrifice, 
ourselves  about  trifles;  if  you  want  your  breakfast  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  I  mine  at  eleven,  why,  we  can  have  it  in  that 
way;  it  won't  be  necessary  for  us  to  change  our  customs  in 
the  very  least  for  each  other,  and  I  assure  you  in  the  long- 
run  that  tells.  It's  possible,  of  course,  that  you  may  hate 
me ;  but  I  don't  believe  you  do ;  and,  in  case  you  don't,  I 
see  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  lead  an  easy  life  together. 
Really,  looking  at  it  in  that  way,  it's  a  very  pretty  little 
prospect — for  people  of  sense." 

As  he  concluded  with  these  words,  genially  uttered,  Mar 
garet  dropped  suddenly  into  a  chair  which  was  near  her  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Lanse  looked  at  her,  there  was  genuine  kindness  in  his 
beautiful  dark  eyes  with  the  yellow  lights  in  them.  "  There's 
one  question  I  might  ask  you,  Margaret — but  no,  I  won't; 
it's  really  none  of  my  business.  You  will  always  act  like  an 
angel ;  your  thoughts  are  your  own  affair." 

Margaret  still  sat  motionless,  her  face  covered. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  you  feel  so ;  I  meant  to  be — I  want  to 
be — as  considerate  as  possible.  Great  heavens  !"  Lanse  went 
on,  "  what  a  fettered,  restricted  existence  you  women — the 
good  ones — do  lead  !  I  have  the  greatest  sympathy  for  you. 
When  you're  wretched,  you  can't  do  anything ;  you  can't 
escape,  and  you  can't  take  any  of  the  compensations  men 
take  when  they  want  to  balance  ill  luck  in  other  directions ; 
all  you  can  do  is — sit  still  and  bear  it !  I  wonder  you  en 
dure  it  as  you  do.  But  I  won't  talk  about  it,  talking's  all 
rot;  short  of  killing  myself,  I  don't  know  that  there's  any 
thing  I  can  do  that  would  improve  the  situation  ;  and  that 
wouldn't  be  of  any  use  either,  at  least  to  you,  because  it 
would  leave  you  feeling  guilty,  and  guilt  you  could  never 
bear.  Come,  hold  up  your  head,  Madge ;  nothing  in  this 
stupid  life  is  worth  feeling  so  wretched  about;  life's  noth 
ing  but  rubbish,  after  all.  Get  the  checker-board  and  we'll 
have  a  game." 

Margaret  had  risen.     "  I  can't  to-night." 


EAST  ANGELS.  437 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do,  then  ?"  began  Lanse,  in  a  com 
plaining  tone.  He  was  as  good  as  bis  word,  be  bad  already 
dismissed  tbe  subject  from  bis  mind.  "  AVell,  if  you  must 
go,"  be  went  on,  "just  band  me  that  book  of  poor  Halle- 
son's,  first," 

This  was  a  book  of  sketches  of  tbe  work  of  Mino  da  Fie- 
sole,  the  loving,  patient  studies  of  a  young  American  who 
bad  died  in  Italy  years  before,  when  Lanse  was  there.  Lanse 
bad  been  kind  to  him,  at  the  last  bad  closed  bis  eyes,  and 
bad  then  laid  him  to  sleep  in  that  lovely  shaded  cemetery 
under  the  shadow  of  tbe  pyramid  outside  the  walls  of  Rome 
— sweet  last  resting-place  that  lingers  in  many  a  traveller's 
memory.  The  book  of  sketches  bad  been  left  to  him,  and 
he  was  very  fond  of  it. 

As  Margaret  gave  it  to  him  he  saw  her  face  more  clearly, 
saw  tbe  traces  of  tears  under  tbe  dark  lashes.  "  Yes,  go  and 
rest,"  be  said,  compassionately  ;  "  go  to  bed.  I  should  re 
proach  myself  very  much  if  I  thought  it  was  waiting  upon 
me,  care  about  me,  that  bad  tired  you  so." 

"No,  I  have  very  little  to  do;  the  men  do  everything," 
Margaret  answered.  "  I  haven't  half  as  much  to  attend  to 
here  as  I  have  at  home."  She  seemed  to  wish  to  reassure 
him  on  this  point. 

"  At  home?"  said  Lanse,  jocularly.  "  What  are  you  talk 
ing  about?  This  is  your  home,  isn't  it? — wherever  I  happen 
to  be." 

But  evidently  his  wife's  self-control  had  been  rudely  shaken 
when  her  tears  bad  mastered  her,  for  now  she  could  not  an 
swer  him,  she  turned  and  left  the  room. 

"  Courage !"  he  called  after  her  as  she  went  towards  the 
door.  "You  should  do  as  I  do  —  not  mind  trifles;  you 
should  shake  them  off." 

She  went  with  a  swift  step  to  her  own  room,  and  threw 
herself  face  downward  upon  a  low  couch,  her  bead  resting 
upon  her  clasped  hands ;  the  sudden  movement  loosened  her 
hair,  soon  it  began  to  slip  from  its  fastenings  and  drop  over 
her  shoulders  in  a  thick,  soft,  perfumed  mass;  then,  falling 
forward,  lock  by  lock,  the  long  ends  touched  the  floor. 

As  she  lay  thus  behind  her  bolted  doors,  fighting  with  an 
unhappiness  so  deep  that  her  whole  heart  was  sobbing  and 


438  EAST  ANGELS. 

crying-,  though  now  she  did  not  shed  outwardly  a  tear,  her 
husband,  stroking  his  brown  beard  meditatively,  was  getting 
a  great  deal  of  enjoyment  out  of  poor  Malleson's  book 
Lanse  had  a  very  delicate  taste  in  such  matters;  he  knew 
a  beautiful  outline  when  he  saw  it,  from  a  single  palmetto 
against  the  blue,  on  a  point  in  the  St.  John's,  to  these  low 
reliefs  of  the  sweetest  sculptor  of  the  Renaissance.  Long 
before,  he  had  told  Margaret  that  he  married  her  for  her 
profile ;  slim,  unformed  girl  as  she  was,  there  had  been,  from 
the  first  moment  he  saw  her,  an  immense  satisfaction  for  his 
eyes  in  the  poise  of  her  head  and  the  clearness  of  her  feat 
ures  every  time  she  entered  the  room. 

Whether  he  would  have  found  any  satisfaction  in  these 
same  outlines,  could  he  have  seen  them  prone  in  their  pres 
ent  abandonment,  only  himself  could  have  told. 

lie  would  have  said,  probably,  that  he  found  no  satisfac 
tion  at  all.  Lansing  Harold,  as  has  been  remarked  before, 
had  a  great  deal  of  benevolence. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  I  DON'T  know  how  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Harold,  what  has  hap 
pened,"  began  Dr.  Kirby.  "I  cannot  explain  it  even  to  my 
self."  The  Doctor  was  evidently  very  unhappy,  and  much 
disturbed. 

He  was  in  the  sitting-room  of  the  house  on  the  river — a 
place  not  so  desolate  after  eight  months  of  Margaret's  habita 
tion  there.  She  could  not  restore  the  blossoming  vines  to 
the  stripped  exterior,  she  could  not  bring  to  life  again  the 
old  trees ;  but  within  she  had  made  a  great  change ;  the 
rooms  were  fairly  comfortable  now,  green  blinds  gave  a  sem 
blance  of  the  former  leafy  shade. 

But  more  than  the  rooms  was  the  mistress  of  them  herself 
transformed.  The  change  was  not  one  of  manner  or  ex 
pression  ;  it  was  the  metamorphosis  which  can  be  produced 
by  a  complete  alteration  of  dress.  For  Lanse  had  objected 
to  the  simplicity  of  his  wife's  attire,  and  especially  to  the 
plain,  close  arrangement  of  her  hair.  "  You  don't  mean  it, 


EAST  ANGELS.  439 

I  know,"  he  said,  "  but  it  lias  an  appearance  of  affectation, 
a  sort  of  '  holier  than  thou  '  air.  I  hate  to  see  women  going 
about  in  that  way ;  it  looks  as  if  they  thought  themselves  so 
beautiful  that  they  didn't  mind  calling  attention  to  it — with 
sanctimonious  primness,  of  course ;  it's  the  most  conspicu 
ous  thing  a  woman  can  do." 

"It's  not  a  matter  of  principle  with  me;  it's  only  my 
taste,"  Margaret  answered.  "I  have  always  liked  simplicity 
in  others,  and  so  I  have  dressed  in  that  way  myself." 

"  Alter  it,  then ;  with  your  sort  of  face  you  couldn't  pos 
sibly  look  flashy ;  and  you  might  look  prettier — less  like  a 
saint.  There,  don't  be  enraged,  I  know  you  haven't  a  grain 
of  that  kind  of  pose.  But  it  seems  to  me,  Margaret,  that 
you  might  very  well  dress  to  please  me,  since  I  regard  you 
as  a  charming  picture,  keeping  my  hands  off."  And  he 
laughed. 

The  next  steamer  that  touched  at  the  long  pier  (it  was  not 
two  hours  afterwards)  took  from  there  half  a  dozen  hastily 
written  letters  to  carry  north. 

"  What  in  the  world  —  why,  I  hardly  knew  you,"  Aunt 
Katrina  said,  ten  days  later,  when  her  niece  came  over  to 
East  Angels  to  see  her ;  now  that  Lanse  was  better,  she  could 
come  oftcner. 

"Lanse  wished  it,"  Margaret  answered  as  she  took  her  seat. 

"  And  very  properly.  You  certainly  had  a  most  tiresome 
way  of  having  your  things  made — so  deadly  plain  ;  it  looked 
as  if  you  wanted  people  to  think  you  either  very  Quakerish 
or  very  miserable,  I  never  knew  which." 

"If  I  had  been  miserable  I  shouldn't  have  paid  so  ranch 
attention  to  it,  should  I  ?  It  takes  a  great  deal  of  attention 
to  dress  in  that  way."  She  spoke,  if  not  smilingly,  then  at 
least  in  the  even  tone  which  people  now  called  "alwavs  so 
cheerful." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  you  really  were,  I  only  meant 
how  you  looked.  I  am  glad,  at  least,  that  you  acknowledge 
that  it  takes  a  great  stock  of  vanity  to  go  against  all  the 
fashions.  Well,  you  don't  look  QuaKcrish  now !" 

"You  like  the  dress,  then?" 

"It's  lovely"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  scanning  every  detail 
from  the  hat  to  the  shoe.  " Expensive,  of  course?" 


440  EAST  ANGELS. 

"Yes." 

"  And  Lanse  likes  that  ?" 

"  He  wishes  me  to  dress  richly ;  he  says  it's  more  becom 
ing  to  me." 

"  I  think  that's  so  nice  of  him,  he  wants  you  to  look,  I 
suppose,  as  well  as  you  can"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  rrfagnani- 
mously.  "  And  certainly  you  do  look  a  great  deal  better." 

Whether  Margaret  looked  better  was  a  question  whose  an 
swer  depended  upon  the  personal  taste  of  those  who  saw  her ; 
she  looked,  at  least,  very  different.  The  sumptuous  wrap 
with  its  deep  fringes,  the  lace  of  the  scarf,  the  general  im 
pression  of  costly  fabrics  and  of  color  in  her  attire,  brought 
out  the  outlines  of  her  face,  as  the  curling  waves  of  her  hair 
over  her  forehead  deepened  the  blue  of  her  eyes.  On  her 
white  arms  now,  at  home  in  the  evenings,  bracelets  gleamed, 
the  flash  of  rings  came  from  her  little  hands ;  her  slender 
figure  trailed  behind  it  rich  silks  of  various  light  hues. 

"You  are  a  beautiful  object  nowadays,  Margaret,"  Lanse 
said  more  than  once.  "Fancy  your  having  known  how,  all 
this  time,  without  ever  having  used  your  talent !" 

"  It's  my  dress-maker's  talent." 

"  Yes;  she  must  have  a  great  deal  to  carry  out  your  orders." 

He  was  especially  pleased  one  evening.  She  came  in, 
bringing  his  newspaper,  which  had  just  arrived  by  the 
steamer;  she  was  dressed  in  a  long  gleaming  gown  of  satin, 
with  long  tight  sleeves;  she  wore  a  little  ruff  of  Venetian 
lace,  there  was  a  golden  comb  in  her  dark  hair.  A  fan  made 
of  the  bright  plumage  of  some  tropical  bird  lay  against  the 
satin  of  her  skirt;  it  hung  by  a  ribbon  from  the  broad  satin 
belt,  which,  fastened  by  a  golden  buckle,  defined  her  slender 
waist. 

"  You  look  like  a  fine  old  engraving,"  he  said. 

She  stood  holding  the  paper  towards  him.  But  for  a  mo 
ment  he  did  not  take  it,  he  was  surveying  her  critically  ;  then 
he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face,  there  was  a  smile  in  them. 
"  You  did  it — do  it — to  please  me  ?"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Because  you  think  it  your  duty  to  do  what  I  wish.  And 
because,  too,  you  are  a  trifle  afraid  of  me  !"  He  laughed. 
"  It  would  have  an  even  better  effect,  though,  if  you  wouldn't 


EAST  ANGELS.  441 

take  it  quite  so  seriously  ;  couldn't  you  contrive  to  get  a  lit 
tle  pleasure  out  of  it  on  your  own  account? — I  mean  the 
looking  so  handsome." 

She  gave  him  the  paper,  and  went  across  to  her  work- 
table.  "  I  am  delighted  to  look  handsome,"  she  said. 

"  No,  you're  not  It  was  probably  easier  for  you  to  dress 
as  you  used  to — plainly  ;  more  in  accordance  with  your  feel- 
ino-s,  women  like  to  be  in  accordance.  When  they're  com 
pletely  satisfied,  or  very  unhappy,  they  brush  their  hair 
straight  back  from  their  faces.  Well,  yours  curls  enough 
now  !" 

"The  truth  is,  Madge,  you're  too  yielding,"  he  resumed 
after  a  short  silence.  "  I  take  advantage  of  it,  of  course — I 
always  shall ;  but  you  would  get  on  a  great  deal  better  your 
self,  you  might  even  have  had  more  influence  over  me  ('if 
you  care  about  that),  if  you  had  been,  if  you  were  now,  a 
little  less — patient." 

"  I  suppose  there's  no  use  in  my  repeating  that  I'm  not 
patient  at  all,"  answered  Margaret.  She  was  taking  some 
balls  of  silk  from  the  drawer. 

"You  want  me  to  think  it's  self-control.  Well,  perhaps 
it  is.  But  then,  you  know,  unbroken  self-control — " 

"  Would  you  mind  it  if  I  should  ask  you  not  to  discuss  it 
— my  self-control  ?"  Her  hands  were  beginning  to  tremble. 
"  Put  your  hands  in  your  pocket  if  you  don't  want  me  to 
see  them,"  said  Lanse,  laughing;  "they  always  betray  you 
— even  when  your  voice  is  steady.  What  a  temper  you've 
got — though  you  do  curb  it  so  tightly !  At  least  you're  in 
finitely  better  off  than  you  would  have  been  if  you  had  hap 
pened  to  care  for  me. "  That's  been  the  enormous  blessing 
of  your  life — your  not  caring ;  just  supposing  you  had  cared  ! 
Yo\i  ought  to  be  very  thankful ;  and  you  ought  to  reckon 
up  your  blessings  every  now  and  then,  for  fear  of  forgetting 
some  of  them ;  we  ought  all  to  do  that,  I  think." 

He  said  this  with  great  gravity.  Not  that  he  felt  in  the 
least  grave ;  but  it  was  a  way  Larise  had  of  amusing  himself, 
once  in  a  while, — to  make  remarks  of  this  sort  with  a  very 
solemn  face. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  or  two  longer  as  she  sat 
with  her  eyes  bent  upon  her  knitting.  "  You're  in  the  right 


442  EAST  ANGELS. 

chair,"  he  said  at  length,  "but  you're  sitting  too  straight. 
Won't  you  please  take  that  footstool,  put  your  feet  on  it, 
and  then  lean  back  more  ?  You  long  lithe  women  look  better 
that  way." 

She  did  not  move. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  you're  furious ;  but  you  know  you 
ought  to  humor  me.  It's  only  that  I  want  my  picture  more 
complete — that's  all." 

And  then,  with  nervous  quickness,  she  did  what  he  asked. 

It  was  upon  the  morning  following  this  little  conversation 
that  Dr.  Kirby  made  his  appearance  at  the  house  on  the  river 
and  declared  that  he  could  not  "  explain." 

"  Tell  me  without  explaining,"  Margaret  suggested. 

But  this  at  first  seemed  to  the  Doctor  even  more  difficult 
than  the  other  alternative ;  it  would  have  been  so  much  more 
in  accordance  with  his  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  to  ascend 
this  stumbling-block  which  had  fallen  in  their  path  by  means 
of  a  proper  staircase,  carpeted  steps  of  probabilities,  things 
he  had  foreseen — -intuitions.  But  in  fact  he  had  foreseen 
nothing;  he  felt  that  he  could  not  make  a  staircase.  So  he 
gave  one  great  hard  bound. 

"  Garda  is  engaged,"  he  announced.    "  To  Lucian  Spenser." 

Margaret  was  greatly  astonished.  "I  didn't  know  he  was 
back,"  she  said. 

"  He  has  only  just  come.  She  went  up  to  Norfolk  with 
my  cousin,  Sally  Lowndes  " — here  the  Doctor  stopped,  gaz 
ing  at  Margaret  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  I  left  it  to  you  to  decide  about  her  going — don't 
you  remember?" 

"  I  decided  wrongly.  Sally  was  obliged  to  go,  and  anxious 
to  take  Garda — I  was  in  Charleston,  and  I  allowed  it.  I  had 
no  business  to !"  said  the  Doctor,  slapping  his  knee  suddenly 
and  fiercely.  "  I  distinctly  disapprove  of  much  travelling  for 
young  girls — mere  aimless  gadding  about.  But  I  have  been 
corrupted,  to  a  certain  degree,  by  the  new  nor — the  new  mod 
ern  ideas  that  are  making  their  way  everywhere  at  present; 
I  could  bury  my  head  in  a  hay-stack !  When  did  you  hear 
from  her  last  ?" 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  Norfolk  immediately  after  her  ar 
rival." 


EAST  ANGELS.  443 

"  Before  slie  had  met  him.     And  nothing  since  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"Yes,  she  said  she  should  rather  have  me  tell  you  than 
write  herself." 

"  She  thought  you  would  be  on  her  side." 

"  No,  madam,  no ;  she  couldn't  have  thought  that — that 
would  be  impossible.  But  she  was  good  enough  to  say  that 
I  should,  in  the  telling,  be  certain  to  make  you  laugh.  And 
that  was  what  she  wanted." 

Moisture  glittered  suddenly  in  his  eyes  as  he  brought  this 
out.  He  pretended  it  was  not  there,  and  searching  for  his 
handkerchief,  he  coughed  gruffly,  complaining  of  "  a  cold." 

"  I  certainly  don't  laugh,"  said  Margaret.  "  But  perhaps 
we  need  not  be  so — so  troubled  about  it,  Doctor.  The  first 
thing  now  is  to  have  her  come  home." 

"  She's  back  in  Charleston." 

"  Oh !" 

"  Yes.  As  soon  as  I  received  Sally's  letter — she  wrote  at 
once — I  started  immediately  for  Norfolk.  I  saw  Mr.  Spen 
ser — in  my  quality  of  guardian  it  was  proper  that  I  should 
see  him.  And  I  brought  the  two  ladies  home." 

"  And  not  Mr.  Spenser  too  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  Mr.  Spenser  !"  Then,  after 
a  moment,  "I  reckon  he  will  follow,"  the  Doctor  murmured, 
dejectedly. 

"  And  I — who  thought  he  was  in  Venice  !" 

"  He  was  in  Venice  until  a  few  weeks  ago.  I  don't  know 
in  the  least  what  brought  him  home.  And  I  don't  know  in 
the  least  what  brought  him  to  Norfolk,  unless  it  was,  as  I 
was  told,  some  insane  fancy  for  sketching  the  Dismal  Swamp  ; 
— of  all  places  in  the  world  the  miry  old  Dismal !  And  to 
think  that  I  should  have  let  Garda  go  there,  at  just  that  mo 
ment  !  It's  a  combination  of  fortuitous  chances  which  seems 
to  me  absolutely  infernal! — I  beg  your  pardon,  madam" — 
here  the  Doctor  rose,  bowing  ceremoniously,  with  his  hand 
on  the  broad  expanse  of  beautifully  starched  linen,  which 
kept  its  place  unmoved  over  his  disturbed  breast.  "It  is  not 
often  that  I  am  betrayed  into  language  unsuited  to  a  lady's 
presence.  I  ask  you  to  excuse  me." 

"  You  do  not  like  Mr.  Spenser,"  said  Margaret. 


444  EAST  ANGELS. 

The  Doctor  stared.     "  Do  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  not  so  much  whether  we  like  him,  as 
whether  we  approve  of  him  for  Garda.  But  I  am  afraid  she 
would  not  listen  to  us  even  if  we  should  disapprove." 

"I  think  you  are  in  error  there,"  said  the  Doctor,  begin 
ning  to  walk  to  and  fro  with  quick  short  steps.  Much  as  he 
liked  Margaret,  it  was  with  anger  that  he  answered  her  now. 

"  I  must  tell  you  what  I  think,  mustn't  I  ?"  said  the  other 
guardian,  gently.  "And  I  think  she  has  cared  for  him  a 
long  time." 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  agree  with  you.  Long  time? 
Permit  me  to  ask  how  long  you  mean?  In  the  mean  while 
she  has  been  engaged  to  another  man  —  Evert  Winthrop. 
Do  you  forget  thaU" 

"I  don't  think  she  realized  fully — she  was  very  young; 
she  is  extremely  impulsive  always,"  answered  his  colleague, 
wandering  rather  helplessly  for  a  moment  among  her  phrases. 
Then  she  spoke  more  decidedly.  "  But  now  she  knows,  now 
she  is  sure ;  she  is  sure  it  is  Lucian  she  cares  for." 

"  She  is  fanciful,  and  this  is  only  another  fancy.  Sally, 
too,  has  been  much  to  blame." 

"  I  do  not  think  Garda  is  fanciful,"  said  Margaret.  "And 
— it  is  not  a  childish  feeling,  her  liking  for  Lucian  Spenser." 

The  Doctor  stopped  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Then 
he  came  back  and  stood  gazing  at  Margaret  in  silence.  "  You 
are  a  woman,  and  you  are  good,"  he  said  at  last.  "  She  is 
very  fond  of  you,  she  tells  you  everything,  and  you  must 
know.  If  therefore  you  say  that  she — " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Margaret,  "  I  do  know.  I  am  sure  she 
cares  for  him  very,  very  much."  Here  some  of  Garda's  ex 
traordinarily  frank  expressions  about  Lucian,  and  the  delight 
it  gave  her  to  even  look  at  him,  coming  suddenly  into  her 
memory,  over  all  her  fair  face  there  rose  a  sweet  deep  blush. 

The  Doctor  turned  away  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"There  is  nothing  against  Mr.  Spenser,  I  believe,"  Marga 
ret  began  again,  after  a  short  pause. 

"It  isn't  that.  No,  I  believe  there  is  nothing."  He  sat 
there,  his  figure  looking  unusually  small,  his  eyes  turned 
away. 

Margaret  asked  some  questions.     By  degrees  the  Doctor 


EAST  ANGELS.  445 

answered  them.  He  said  that  Lucian  was  possessed  of  "  a 
genteel  income."  He  had  not  accepted  his  wife's  large  fort 
une  ;  she  had  left  everything  to  him,  but  he  had  immediate 
ly  given  the  whole  back  to  her  relatives,  retaining  only  the 
profits  of  some  investments  which  she  had  made,  since  their 
marriage,  under  his  advice;  this  sum  the  Doctor  described 
as  "  a  competence." 

"  When  is  Garda  coming  home?"  Margaret  asked. 

"  She  says  she  isn't  coming ;  she  says  she  knows  you  have 
no  place  for  her  here — no  time;  and  she  doesn't  wish  to 
stay  with  any  one  but  you." 

"  She  does  not  mean  that.  I  think  she  should  come,  she 
lias  been  in  Charleston  a  long  time;  Mrs.  Lowndes  has  been 
wonderfully  kind." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  Sally  likes  to  have  her  there.  She  says 
it  has  made  her  '  young  again  '  to  see  Garda.  And  to  admire 
(I  don't  know  what  she  meant  by  that)  Adolfo  Torres." 

"  Is  he  there  still  ?" 

"  He  is  there  still.  He  doesn't  believe  in  the  least  in  Gar- 
da's  engagement." 

"  He  didn't  believe  in  the  other  one,"  said  Margaret.  And 
then  she  was  sorry  she  had  said  it,  for  the  Doctor  jumped 
up  and  seized  his  hat;  it  was  still  insupportable  to  him,  the 
thought  of  those  two  engagements. 

"He's  a  hallucinated  idiot!"  he  said,  violently.  Then, 
controlling  himself,  he  took  leave  of  Margaret,  bowing  over 
her  hand  with  his  old  stately  ceremony.  Mr.  Harold  was 
in  the  garden?  He  would  go  out  and  see  him  there.  It 
was  most  satisfactory7,  certainly,  the  improvement  in  Mr. 
Harold. 

•On  the  present  occasion  the  Doctor  found  Lansc  on  a 
couch  which  he  had  had  carried  out  to  the  garden  ;  here  he 
lay  contentedly  smoking,  and  looking  at  the  river.  Lansc 
liked  the  Doctor;  it  was  an  ever-fresh  amusement  to  him  to 
realize  that  his  large,  long,  muscular  self  was  committed  to 
the  care  of  that  "pottering  little  man."  The  Doctor  was 
not  in  the  least  "  pottering."  But  Lanse  really  thought  that 
all  short  men  with  small  hands,  who  were  without  an  active 
taste  for  guns,  were  of  that  description.  The  sad  Doctor 
made  but  a  brief  visit  this  time ;  then  he  started  homeward. 


446  EAST  ANGELS. 

He  had  still  the  news  about  Garcia  to  tell  in  Gracias.  At 
present  it  was  known  only  to  ma. 

Garcia  did  not  comply  with  the  wish  of  her  friends,  and 
return  to  them.  She  wrote  a  dozen  letters  about  it,  but  in 
actual  presence  she  remained  away.  Most  of  these  epistles 
were  to  Margaret.  As  time  went  on  she  wrote  to  Margaret 
every  day. 

But  her  letters  were  not  letters  at  all,  in  the  usual  sense  of 
the  word;  they  were  brief  diaries,  rapidly  jotted  down,  of 
the  feelings  of  the  moment ;  they  were  pa?ans,  rhapsodies, 
bubbling  exclamations  of  delight ;  none  of  them  ever  ex 
ceeded  in  length  a  page. 

They  seemed  to  Margaret  very  expressive.  She  did  not 
know  what  Garda  might  be  writing  to  the  Kirbys,  the  Moores, 
and  Mrs.  Carew  ;  but  what  Garda  wrote  to  her  she  kept  to 
herself. 

This  was  the  girl's  first  letter  after  Margaret's  note  urging 
her  to  return : 

"Margaret,  I  can't  come — don't  ask  me;  for  none  of  them 
there  would  sympathize  with  me — not  even  yon.  It  isn't 
that  I  want  sympathy — I  never  even  think  of  it.  But  I 
don't  want  the  least  disagreeable  thing  now  when  I  am  so 
blissful  —  bliss  is  the  only  word.  Lucian  comes  in  every 
morning  on  the  train.  The  Doctor  said  that  of  course  he 
would  not  stay  all  the  time  in  Charleston.  So  to  satisfy 
him  Lucian  stays  four  miles  out. 

"  Oh,  Margaret,  everything  is  so  enchanting ! 

"  GARDA." 

"DEAR  MARGARET,  —  Every  morning  I  watch  until  he 
opens  the  gate "  (she  wrote  a  day  later),  "  and  then  I  run 
down  to  meet  him  in  the  hall.  We  don't  stay  in  the  house, 
we  go  into  the  garden.  Mrs.  Lowndes  says  she  loves  to  have 
him  come,  because  he  reminds  her  so  much  of  Mr.  Lowndes 
— *  Roger,'  she  calls  him.  And  she  says  it  makes  her  young 
again  in  her  heart  to  see  us.  And  perhaps  it  does  in  her 
heart,  but  the  change  hasn't  reached  the  outside  yet.  I  am 
expecting  him  every  minute,  there  he  comes  now. 

"GARDA." 


EAST  ANGELS.  447 

"DEAR  MARGARET, — If  I  could  stay  with  you,  I  would 
come  back  to-morrow,"  she  wrote  in  answer  to  a  second 
letter  from  Margaret,  which  urged  her  strongly  to  return. 
"But  I  know  you  don't  want  me  now — that  is,  you  can't 
have  me — and  where  else  could  I  stay  ?  The  Doctor  hates 
Lucian — he  may  pretend,  but  he  does.  If  I  should  stay  at 
the  rectory,  Mrs.  Moore  would  be  sure  to  say,  how  pleasant 
for  Lucian  and  I  to  read  poetry  on  the  veranda,  because  that 
is  what  she  and  Middleton  used  to  do  when  they  were  en 
gaged.  But  Lucian  and  I  don't  want  to  read  any  poetry  on 
verandas.  GARDA." 

"  DEAR  MARGARET, — Lucian  has  gone  for  the  night,  and 
there's  nothing  else  to  do,  so  I  thought  I  would  write  to  you. 
Mrs.  Lowndes  has  just  been  in.  She  brought  a  daguerreotype 
of  Mr.  Lowndes,  taken  when  he  was  young,  and  she  says  she 
knows  exactly  how  I  feel,  because  she  used  to  feel  just  the 
same;  when  she  was  at  the  window,  and  saw  'Roger'  com 
ing  down  the  street,  the  very  calves  of  her  legs  used  to  quiv 
er,  she  says.  Roger  must  have  been  stout — at  least  he  is  in 
the  daguerreotype,  and  he  wore  glasses. 

"Lucian  is  painting  me;  but  I  only  wish  I  could  paint 
him.  Oh,  Margaret,  he  is  so  beautiful !  GARDA." 

"  DEAREST  MARGARET, — I'm  so  glad  I  am  alive,  it's  so 
nice  to  be  alive.  People  say  life's  dreadful,  but  to  me  it's 
perfectly  delicious  every  single  minute.  I  thought  I  would 
tell  you  how  happy  I  was  before  going  to  bed, — I  love  to 
write  it  down.  GARDA." 


The  Doctor  went  up  to  Charleston  again.  He  was  much 
displeased  with  the  course  things  were  taking,  he  spoke  with 
a  good  deal  of  severity  to  Sally  Lowndes. 

Sally,  who  was  soft-bodied  as  well  as  soft-hearted  (her  fig 
ure  was  a  good  deal  relaxed),  shed  tears.  Then,  recovering 
some  spirit,  she  wished  to  know  what  the  Doctor  had  ex 
pected  her  to  do?  It  was  true  that  that  sweet  Garda  had 
left  off  her  lessons  (up  to  this  time  she  had  "  had  instruc 
tion,"  that  is,  teachers  had  arrived  at  fixed  hours)  ;  but  Sally 


448  EAST  ANGELS. 

was  decidedly  of  the  opinion  that  a  girl  who  was  so  soon  to 
be  married  should  be  relieved  at  least  of  "  school-room  drudo- 
cry." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  she  should  be 
kept  even  more  closely  to  her  books.  Your  ideas  are  pro 
vincial  and  ridiculous,  Sally ;  I  don't  know  where  you  ob 
tained  them." 

"From  my  mother,"  answered  Sally,  with  a  pink  flush  of 
excitement  in  her  faded  cheeks.  "  From  my  grandmother 
too — who  was  yours  also.  It  is  you  who  are  changed,  Reg 
inald  ;  it  has  never  been  the  custom  in  our  family  to  keep 
the  girls  down  at  their  books  after  sixteen." 

This  was  true.  But  the  very  truth  of  it  made  the  Doctor 
more  angry.  "  I  shall  take  her  back  with  me,"  he  said. 

"She  doesn't  wish  to  go." 

"  That  makes  no  difference." 

And  then  Sally  "  supposed  "  that  it  was  not  his  intention 
to  drag  her  back  "in  chains?"  Mrs.  Lowndes  was  evidently 
much  displeased  with  Cousin  Eeginald. 

The  Doctor  took  Garda  to  a  remote  part  of  the  garden. 
Here  he  placed  before  her  in  serious  words  the  strong  wish 
he  had  that  she  should  return  with  him  to  Gracias. 

Garda  laughed  out  merrily.  Then  she  came  and  kissed 
him.  "Don't  ask  me  to  do  anything  so  horribly  disagree- 
ble,"  she  said,  coaxingiy. 

"  Would  it  be  disagreeable  ?"  asked  the  Doctor,  his  voice 
changing  to  pathos. 

"  Of  course.  For  you're  not  nice  to  Lucian,  you  know 
you're  not;  how  can  I  like  that?" 

"I  will  be — nice,"  said  the  Doctor,  borrowing  her  word, 
though  the  use  of  it  in  that  sense  was  to  him  like  turning  a 
somersault. 

,  "  Would  you  really  try  ?"  said  Garda.  She  came  behind 
him,  putting  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  resting  her  head 
on  his  shoulder.  "  You  never  could,"  she  said,  fondly.  And 
then,  as  though  he  were  some  big  good-natured  animal,  a 
magnanimous  elephant  or  bear,  she  let  him  feel  the  weight 
of  her  little  dimpled  chin. 

"  I  am  weak  because  I  have  loved  you  so  long,  my  child. 
I  might  insist ;  you  are  my  ward.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 


EAST  AXGELS.  449 

you  ought  to  care  more  about  doing  a  little  as  we  wish,  Mrs. 
Harold  agrees  with  me  in  thinking  this." 

"  Margaret  is  sweet;  I  love  her  dearly.  But,  do  you  know  " 
— here  she  disengaged  herself,  and  began  with  a  sudden  in 
consequent  industry  to  gather  flowers — "  it's  so  funny  to  me 
that  you  should  think,  either  of  you,  for  one  moment,  that  I 
would  leave  Lucian  now." 

"He  could  come  too.  A  little  later."  The  Doctor  was 
driven  to  this  concession. 

"  But  I  shouldn't  see  him  as  I  do  here,  you  know  I 
shouldn't.  Here  we  do  quite  as  we  please ;  no  one  ever 
comes  to  this  part  of  the  garden  but  ourselves ;  we  might  be 
on  a  desert  island — only  it  would  have  to  be  an  island  of 
flowers." 

"  And  you  care  more  for  this  than  for  our  wishes  ?"  began 
the  Doctor.  Then  he  took  a  lighter  tone.  "  Of  course  you 
don't ;  you  will  come  home  with  me,  my  child  ;  we  will  start 
this  afternoon."  Watching  her  move  about  among  the  bush 
es  as  she  gathered  her  roses,  he  had  fallen  back  into  his  old 
belief;  this  young  face  where  to  him  were  still  so  plainly 
visible  the  childish  outlines  of  the  little  girl  he  had  been 
used  to  lead  about  by  the  hand — even  of  the  dimpled  baby 
he  remembered  so  well — he  could  not  bring  himself  to  real 
ize  that  it  had  gained  older  expressions,  expressions  he  did 
not  know. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  dear,"  Garda  answered,  generally.  And 
then  she  knelt  down  to  peer  through  a  bush  which  might 
perhaps  be  holding  its  best  buds  hidden. 

The  Doctor,  completely  routed  by  the  word  which  she  had 
without  the  least  effort  used — the  maturity  of  that  "  dear," 
addressed  her  at  last,  though  unconscious  that  he  was  doing 
so,  in  the  tone  of  equality.  "  It  isn't  as  though  you  had 
anything  to  bear,  like  the  prospect  of  a  long  engagement,  as 
though  there  were  any  difficulties  in  the  way ;  your  marriage 
is  to  come  so  soon,"  he  pleaded. 

"Soon?"  said  Garda.  "Six  long  months!  Do  you  call 
that '  soon  ?'  "  She  stopped  gathering  roses,  and  sat  down  on 
a  garden  bench.  "  Six  months!  I  must  see  him  every  day, 
and  for  a  long  while  every  day  ;  that  will  be  the  only  way 
to  bear  it."  Then  her  words  ceased ;  but  her  splendid  eyes, 

29 


450  EAST  ANGELS. 

meeting  the  Doctor's  (she  had  forgotten  that  he  was  there), 
grew  fuller  and  fuller  of  the  loveliest  dreaming  expression, 
until  the  poor  guardian — he  realized  that  she  would  not  per 
ceive  his  departure — could  not  stand  there  and  watch  it  any 
longer.  He  turned  abruptly  and  went  away. 

"  DEAR  MARGARET, — The  Doctor  has  gone  "  (Garda  wrote 
the  next  day).  "And  I  am  afraid  he  is  displeased.  Appar 
ently  we  please  no  one  but  ourselves  and  Sally  Lowndes ! 
Margaret,  when  my  wedding-day  really  comes  at  last,  nobody 
must  touch  me  but  you ;  you  must  dress  me,  and  you  must 
put  on  my  veil,  and  the  orange-blossoms  (from  the  old  East 
Angels  grove — I  won't  have  any  others).  And  then,  just  be 
fore  we  go  down-stairs,  you  must  say  you  are  pleased.  And 
you  must  forgive  me  all  I  have  done — and  been  too — because 
I  couldn't  help  it.  I  shall  come  over  from  Gracias,  and  go 
down  on  my  knees  to  Mr.  Harold  to  beg  him  to  let  me  be 
with  you,  or  rather  to  let  you  ;  he  must,  he  shall  say  yes." 

But  Lanse  was  not  called  upon  to  go  through  this  ordeal. 

He  had  already  said,  "You  go!"  in  rather  a  high-noted 
tone  of  surprised  remonstrance  when  Margaret  suggested, 
some  time  before,  that  she  should  go  herself  to  Charleston 
and  bring  Garda  back.  "  And  leave  me  shut  up  alone  here  ?" 
he  added,  as  if  to  bring  home  to  her  the  barbarity  of  her  pro- 


"  The  servants  do  very  well  at  present." 

"  They  don't  look  as  you  do,"  Lanse  answered,  gallantly. 
"I  must  have  something  to  look  at." 

"  But  I  think  I  ought  to  go." 

"  You  can  dismiss  that  *  ought '  from  your  mind,  there  are 
other  *  oughts '  that  come  nearer.  In  fact,  viewing  the  mat 
ter  impartially,  you  should  never  have  consented  in  the  be 
ginning,  Madge,  to  take  charge  of  that  girl,  without  first  con 
sulting  me."  Lanse  brought  out  this  last  touch  with  much 
judicial  gravity.  "  Fortunately  your  guardianship,  such  as  it 
is,  will  soon  be  over,"  he  went  on  ;  "  she  will  have  a  husband 
to  see  to  her.  Apparently  she  needs  one." 

"  That  won't  be  for  six  months  yet." 

"  Call  it  two  ;  as  I  understand  it,  there's  nothing  but  dog- 


EAST  ANGELS.  451 

matic  custom  between  them,  and  as  Florida  isn't  the  land  of 
custom — " 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"  Well,  even  grant  that ;  the  girl  is,  from  all  accounts,  a 
rich  specimen  of  wilfulness — " 

"  Of  naturalness." 

"  Oh,  if  they're  guided  by  naturalness,"  said  Lanse,  "  they 
won't  even  wait  two." 

And  it  was  not  two,  when  early  one  morning,  in  old  St. 
Michael's  Church  in  Charleston,  with  Sally  Lowndes,  excited 
and  tearful,  as  witness — their  only  one  save  an  ancient  little 
uncle  of  hers,  who  had  come  in  from  his  rice  plantation  to 
do  them  the  favor  of  giving  the  bride  (whom  he  had  never 
seen  before)  away,  Edgarda  Thorne  and  Lucian  Spenser  were 
married. 

The  Rev.  Batton  Habersham,  as  he  came  robed  in  his  sur 
plice  from  the  vestry-room,  could  not  help  being  conscious, 
even  then  and  there,  that  he  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a 
girl  as  the  one  who  now  stood  waiting  at  the  chancel-rail — 
not  in  the  veil  she  had  written  about,  or  the  orange-blossoms 
from  East  Angels,  but  in  an  every-day  white  frock,  and  gar 
den  hat  covered  with  roses.  The  bridegroom  was  very  hand 
some  also.  But  naturally  the  clergyman  was  not  so  much 
impressed  by  Lucian's  good  points  as  by  Garda's  lovely  ones. 
Sally  Lowndes  was  impressed  by  Lucian,  she  gazed  at  him  as 
one  gazes  at  a  portrait ;  Lucian  looked  very  handsome,  very 
manly,  and  very  much  in  love — a  happy  combination,  Sally 
thought.  And  then,  with  fresh  sweet  tears  welling  in  her 
eyes,  she  knelt  down  for  the  benediction  (though  it  was  not 
given  to  her),  and  thought  of  "  Roger,"  and  the  day  when 
she  should  see  him  again  in  paradise. 

The  Rev.  Batton  Habersham,  who  was  officiating  in  St. 
Michael's  for  a  week  only,  during  the  absence  of  the  rector, 
was  a  man  unknown  to  fame  even  in  his  own  diocese.  But 
it  is  possible  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good  in  the  world  without 
fame,  and  Batton  Habersham  did  it ;  his  little  mission  chapel 
was  on  one  of  the  sea  islands.  Always  thereafter  he  remem 
bered  the  early  morning  marriage  of  that  beautiful  girl  in 
the  dim,  empty  old  Charleston  church  as  the  most  romantic 
episode  of  his  life.  Fervently  he  hoped  that  she  would  be 


452  EAST  ANGELS. 

happy  ;  for  even  so  good  a  mam  is  more  earnest  (unconscious 
ly)  in  his  hopes  for  the  happiness  of  a  bride  with  eyes  and 
hair  like  Garda's  than  he  is  for  that  of  one  with  tints  less' 
striking.  Though  the  relation,  all  the  same,  between  the 
amount  of  coloring  matter  in  the  visual  orbs  or  capillary 
glands,  and  the  degree  of  sweetness  and  womanly  goodness 
in  the  heart  beneath,  has  never  yet  been  satisfactorily  de 
termined. 

An  hour  later  the  northward-bound  train  was  carrying  two 
supremely  happy  persons  across  the  Carolinas  towards  New 
York — the  Narrows — Italy. 

"Well,  we  have  all  been  young  once,  Sally,"  the  little  old 
rice  planter  had  said  to  his  weeping  niece,  as  the  carriage 
drove  away  from  the  hospitable  old  mansion  of  the  Lowndes'. 
Garda  had  almost  forgotten  that  they  were  there,  Sally  and 
himself,  as  they  had  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  carriage 
door ;  but  she  had  looked  so  lovely  in  her  absorbed  felicity 
that  he  forgave  her  on  the  spot,  though  of  course  he  won 
dered  over  her  choice,  and  "couldn't  imagine  "  what  she  could 
see  in  that "  ordinary  young  fellow."  He  went  back  to  his 
plantation.  But  he  was  restless  all  the  evening.  At  last, 
about  midnight,  he  got  out  an  old  miniature  and  some  let 
ters  ;  and  any  one  who  could  have  looked  into  the  silent 
room  later  in  the  night  would  have  seen  the  little  old  man 
still  in  his  arm-chair,  his  face  hidden  in  his  hand,  the  faded 
pages  beside  him. 

"  It  is  perhaps  as  well,"  said  Margaret  Harold.  She  was 
trying  to  administer  some  comfort  to  Dr.  Kirby,  when,  two 
days  later,  he  sat,  a  flaccid  parcel  of  clothes,  on  the  edge  of 
a  chair  in  her  parlor,  staring  at  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  was  triumphant.  "  A  runaway  match  ! 
And  that  is  the  girl  you  would  have  married,  Evert.  What 
an  escape !" 

"  She  has  escaped,"  Winthrop  answered,  smiling. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Escaped  ? — escaped  from  what  ?" 

"  From  all  of  us  here." 

"  Not  from  me,"  answered  Aunt  Katrina,  with  dignity. 
"/  never  tried  to  keep  her,  /  always  saw  through  her  perfect 
ly  from  the  very  first.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  under 
stand  that  girl  even  now  ?"  she  added,  with  some  contradiction. 


EAST  ANGELS.  453 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do — now"  Winthrop  answered. 

"  I  don't  envy  you  your  knowledge !  Poor  Lucian  Spen 
ser — what  could  have  possessed  him  2" 

"  He  ?     He's  madly  in  love  with  her,  of  course." 

"  I'm  glad  at  least  you  think  he's  a  fool,"  said  Aunt  Ka- 
trina,  applying  her  vinaigrette  disdainfully  to  her  well-shaped 
nose. 

"  Fool  ?     Not  at  all ;  he's  only  tremendously  happy." 

**  The  same  thing — in  such  a  case." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  The  question  is,  is  it  better  to 
be  tremendously  happy  for  a  little  while,  and  unreasonable;  or 
to  be  reasonable  all  the  time,  and  never  tremendously  happy?" 

"  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  talk  rationalism — "  said  Aunt 
Katrina. 

Immediately  after  her  return  from  Norfolk,  in  the  interval 
before  Lucian  came,  Garda  sent  for  Adolfo  Torres.  When 
he  appeared  she  begged  him  to  do  her  a  favor,  namely,  to 
leave  Charleston  for  the  present. 

"  Is  it  that  you  wish  me  to  return  to  Gracias  ?"  asked 
Adolfo.  "  The  place  is  a  desperation  without  you." 

il  You  need  not  go  to  Gracias  if  yon  don't  want  to ;  but 
please  go  away  from  here.  Go  to  the  Indian  River,"  she 
suggested,  with  a  sudden  inspiration. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  Indian  River  certainly — if  that  is  your 
wish,"  replied  the  Cuban  ;  "  though  I  do  not  know" — this 
he  added  rather  longingly — "  what  harm  I  do  here." 

"  No  harm  at  all.  But  I  want  you  to  go."  She  smiled 
brightly,  though  there  was  also  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  in 
her  eyes  as  she  surveyed  his  lack-lustre  countenance. 

"  That  is  enough — your  wish.  I  go — I  go  at  once."  He 
took  leave  of  her. 

She  called  him  back,  and  looked  at  him  a  moment.  Then 
she  said,  "  Yes,  go.  And  I  will  write  to  you." 

This  was  a  great  concession,  Adolfo  felt  it  to  be  such. 

The  letter  was  long  in  coming ;  and  when  it  did  come  at 
last,  it  dealt  him,  like  an  actual  hand,  a  prostrating  blow. 
It  was  dated  several  days  after  that  morning  which  had  seen 
the  early  marriage  in  St.  Michael's,  and  the  signature,  when 
his  dazed  eyes  reached  it,  was  one  he  did  not  know — Edgar- 
da  Spenser. 


454  EAST  ANGELS. 

The  Cuban  had  received  this  note  at  dusk.  He  went  out 
and  wandered  about  all  night.  At  daylight  he  came  in, 
dressed  himself  afresh  and  carefully,  and  had  his  boots  pol 
ished — a  process  not  so  much  a  matter  of  course  on  the  Ind 
ian  River  at  that  day  as  in  some  other  localities.  Next  he 
said  a  prayer,  on  his  knees,  in  his  rough  room  in  the  house 
where  he  was  lodged.  Then  he  went  out  and  asked  the  old 
hunter,  his  host,  for  the  favor  of  the  loan  of  one  of  his  guns 
for  the  morning. 

With  this  gun  he  departed  into  the  woods.  He  was  no 
sportsman ;  but  this  did  not  matter,  since  the  game  he  had 
in  view  was  extremely  docile,  it  was  so  docile  that  it  would 
even  arrange  itself  in  the  best  possible  position  for  the  ball. 

But  the  desperate  young  man — his  manner  was  calm  as 
he  made  his  way  through  the  beautiful  southern  forest — was 
not  permitted  to  end  his  earthly  existence  then.  A  hand 
seized  his  shoulder.  "  Are  you  mad,  Adolfo  ?"  said  Manuel 
Euiz,  tears  gleaming  in  his  eyes  as  he  almost  threw  his  friend 
to  the  ground  in  the  quick,  violent  effort  he  made  to  get 
possession  of  the  gun.  Then,  seeing  that  Adolfo  was  look 
ing  at  him  very  strangely,  "  If  you  come  another  step  nearer, 
I'll  shoot  you  down  !"  he  shouted. 

The  Cuban  did  not  say,  "That  is  what  I  want;"  he  did 
not  move  or  speak. 

Manuel  immediately  began  to  talk.  "  They  sent  me  down 
here,  Adolfo  ;  they  had  heard,  and  they  were  afraid  for  you. 
I  had  just  got  home,  and  they  asked  me  to  come — your  aunt 
asked  me." 

"  My  aunt  asked  you,"  repeated  Torres,  mechanically. 

"  Yes,  Adolfo,  your  aunt.  You  must  care  something  for 
her"  said  Manuel.  He  looked  uneasily  about  him. 

And  then  hurrying  through  the  wood,  came  Madam  Giron. 

The  loving -hearted,  sweet-tempered  woman  was  much 
moved.  She  took  her  dead  sister's  unhappy  boy  in  her 
arms,  and  wept  over  him  as  though  he  had  been  her  own 
child;  she  soothed  him  with  motherly  caresses;  she  said, 
tenderly,  that  she  had  not  been  kind  enough  to  him,  that  she 
had  been  too  much  taken  up  with  her  own  children ;  "  But 
now — now,  my  dearest — "  This  all  in  Spanish,  the  sweetest 
sound  in  the  world  to  poor  Torres'  ears. 


EAST  ANGELS.  455 

A  slight  convulsion  passed  over  bis  features,  though  no 
tears  came.  He  was  young  enough  to  have  felt  acutely  the 
loneliness  of  his  suffering,  the  solitude  of  the  death  he  was 
on  his  way  to  seek.  He  stood  perfectly  still ;  his  aunt  was 
now  leaning  against  him  as  she  wept,  he  put  one  arm  pro- 
tectingly  round  her ;  he  felt  a  slow,  slow  return  towards,  not 
a  less  torturing  pain,  but  towards  greater  courage  in  bearing 
it,  in  this  sympathy  which  had  come  to  him.  Even  Manuel 
had  shown  sympathy.  "  I  feel— I  feel  that  I  have  been — 
rather  cowardly,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  dull  tone. 

"  No,  no,  dear,"  said  his  aunt,  putting  up  her  soft  hand 
to  stroke  his  dark  hair.  "  It  was  very  natural,  we  all  under 
stand." 

And  then  a  mist  did  show  itself  for  an  instant  in  the  poor 
boy's  eyes. 

That  same  evening,  Garda,  far  at  sea,  sitting  with  her  head 
on  Lucian's  shoulder  under  the  brilliant  stars,  answered  a  ques 
tion  he  asked.  She  did  not  answer  it  at  first,  she  was  too 
contented  to  talk.  Then,  as  he  asked  it  again,  "  What  ever 
became  of  that  mediaeval  young  Cuban  of  mine  ?" 

"  Oh,  Adolfo  ?"  she  said.  "  I  sent  him  down  to  the  Ind 
ian  River." 

"To  the  Indian  River?  What  in  the  world  did  you  do 
that  for  ?" 

"He  was  in  Charleston,  and  you  were  coming;  I  didn't 
want  him  there." 

"Were  you  afraid  he  would  attack  me?"  asked  Lucian, 
laughing. 

"  I  was  afraid  he  would  suffer, — in  fact,  I  knew  he  would  ; 
and  I  didn't  want  to  see  it.  He  can  suffer  because  he  is  like 
me — he  can  love." 

"Poor  fellow!" 

"  Yes.    But  I  never  cared  for  him  ;  and  he  wouldn't  see  it." 

"  And  '  'way  down  there  in  the  land  of  the  cotton,'  I  don't 
suppose  he  knows  yet  what  has  happened,  does  he?"  said 
Lucian. 

"Oh  yes;  I  wrote  to  him  from  New  York." 
.    "You  waited  till  then?     Wasn't  that  rather  hard?" 

"  Are  you  finding  fault  with  me?"  she  murmured,  turning 


456  EAST  ANGELS. 

her  head  so  that  her  lips  could  reach  and  rest  against  his 
bending  face. 

"Fault!"  said  Lucian,  taking  her  in  his  arms. 

Adolfo  passed  out  of  their  memory. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"I  CANNOT  let  you  go  alone,"  said  Evert  Winthrop,  de 
cidedly. 

He  was  speaking  to  Margaret.  They  were  in  the  East 
Angels  drawing-room,  Betty  Carew  hovering  near,  and  agree 
ing  with  perfect  sincerity  now  with  one,  now  with  the  other, 
in  the  remarkable  way  which  was  part  of  the  breadth  of  her 
sympathy. 

"  But  it's  not  in  the  least  necessary  for  you  to  go,"  Mar 
garet  repeated.  "  Even  if  the  storm  should  break  before  I 
reach  the  river,  the  carriage  can  be  made  perfectly  tight." 

"  From  the  look  of  the  sky,  I  am  almost  sure  that  we  shall 
have  a  blow  before  the  rain,"  Winthrop  responded;  "in  the 
face  of  such  a  probability,  I  couldn't  allow  you  to  start  across 
the  barrens  alone — it's  absurd  to  suppose  I  should." 

Margaret  stood  hesitating.  "  You  want  me  to  give  it  up 
— postpone  it.  But  I  cannot  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  some 
thing  has  happened — I  have  had  no  letter  for  so  long;  even 
if  Lanse  had  not  cared  to  write  himself,  one  of  the  men, 
Elliot  or  Dodd,  would  have  done  so,  it  seems  to  me,  under 
any  ordinary  circumstances." 

"  Lanse  probably  keeps  them  too  busy." 

"They  always  have  their  evenings." 

But  Winthrop  showed  scanty  interest  in  the  evenings  of 
Elliot  and  Dodd.  "  For  myself,  I  can't  pretend  to  be  anx 
ious,"  he  said — "  I  mean  about  Lanse ;  I  am  only  anxious 
about  you." 

"  But  if  I  don't  go  now,  I  can't  go  until  to-morrow  noon  ; 
before  that  time  I  shouldn't  meet  a  boat  that  stops  at  our 
landing.  That  would  make  a  delay  of  twenty-four  hours." 
She  looked  at  him  as  she  said  this,  with  a  sort  of  uncon 
scious  appeal. 


EAST  ANGELS.  457 

"  I  doubt  whether  anything  very  exciting  could  happen 
over  there  in  twice  twenty-four ;  it  isn't  an  exciting  place." 

"  Of  course  you  think  me  obstinate.  But  I  cannot  help 
feeling  that  I  ought  to  go." 

"Perfectly  natural,"  said  Betty.  "I  should  feel  just  the 
same  in  your  place — I  know  I  should — not  hearing  for  so 
long." 

"  It's  that  —  the  silence,"  said  Margaret.  "  I  have  been 
disturbed  about  it  for  several  days." 

"Go,  by  all  means,  if  you  feel  in  that  way,"  said  Win- 
throp.  "  I  haven't  the  least  desire  to  prevent  it — as  you 
seem  to  think ;  I  only  say  that  I  shall  go  too." 

"Yes;  and  that  is  what  I  don't  want."  She  turned  away 
and  stepped  out  on  the  balcony  to  scan  the  sky. 

A  dark  haze  edged  the  eastern  horizon.  It  was  far  away 
at  present,  lying  low  down  on  the  sea,  but  it  would  come,  it 
was  already  coming,  westward  ;  a  clear,  empty-looking  space 
of  cold  peaii-hued  light  preceded  it.  Here  on  the  lagoon 
the  atmosphere  was  breathlessly  still,  not  a  sound  of  any 
kind  stirred  the  warm  silence.  "  Perhaps  it  will  be  only  a 
rain,"  said  Margaret,  rather  helplessly.  She  looked  very  un 
comfortable. 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  that's  all  it  will  be,"  said  Betty,  who  had 
followed  her  to  the  balcony  door.  "And  then,  too,  if  it 
should  be  anything  more,  Mr.  Winthrop  will  be  with  you, 
of  course  ;  that  is,  in  case  you  decide  to  go  ;  and  if  you  don't 
go,  why  then  he  won't,  you  know ;  so  either  way,  it's  all  for 
the  best." 

Margaret  turned  and  came  back  into  the  drawing-room. 
Winthrop  was  standing  by  the  table  where  she  had  left  him  ; 
his  eyes  met  hers,  she  saw  that  he  would  not  yield.  "  I  don't 
dare  give  it  up,  I  don't  dare  wait,"  she  broke  out  with  sud 
den  agitation.  "  Something  has  happened,  nothing  less  could 
have  kept  both  of  the  men  from  writing,  when  I  gave  them 
my  express  orders.  I  don't  understand  why  you  don't  agree 
with  me." 

"You  see  probabilities,  and  Lanse  isn't  a  devotee  of  prob 
abilities,  as  a  general  thing.  Didn't  the  last  letter  say  that 
he  had  begun  to  walk  a  little  ? — with  the  aid  of  two  canes  ? 
By  this  time  it  is  one  cane,  and  he  is  camping  out.  And 


458  EAST  ANGELS. 

he  has  carried  off  the  whole  force  of  the  house  to  cook  for 
him." 

Betty  thought  this  an  excellent  joke,  and  laughed  delight 
edly  over  it. 

"  If  he  is  camping  out,  it  is  quite  time  I  was  back,"  an 
swered  Margaret,  trying  to  speak  lightly.  She  took  up  her 
gloves.  "  Good-by,  Aunt  Betty  ;  you  will  write  to  me  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  will,"  said  Betty,  kissing  her.  "Poor 
dear,  you're  like  Mahomet's  coffin,  aren't  you  ?  suspended 
between  heaven  and — and  the  other  place.  And  I'm  so  glad 
you've  decided  as  you  have,  because  you  will  be  much  easier 
in  your  mind,  though  of  course,  too,  Mr.  Winthrop  was  quite 
right  of  course,  about  being  afraid  for  you  in  case  you  were 
alone,  for  sometimes  we  do  have  the  most  dreadful  gusts, 
and  the  pine-trees  are  blown  down  all  over  the  barrens  and 
right  across  the  roads ;  but  then,  all  the  same,  if  you  hadn't 
decided,  you  would  be  so  uncomfortable,  like  the  old  man 
and  his  son  and  the  donkey,  who  never  got  anywhere,  you 
know,  because  they  tried  to  please  too  many  people,  or  was 
it  that  they  had  to  carry  the  donkey  at  last?  at  any  rate, 
certainly,  there's  no  donkey  here.  Well,  good-by,  dear ;  I 
shall  be  so  dreadfully  anxious  about  you." 

"I  am  quite  sure" — this  was  called  down  the  stairs  after 
Margaret  had  descended — "  I'm  quite  sure,  dear,  that  it  will 
be  nothing  but  a  rain." 

A  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  lower  door;  Winthrop's 
man  was  to  drive;  but  the  horses  were  not  his;  they  were 
a  pair  Margaret  had  sent  for.  Margaret  took  her  place,  and 
Winthrop  followed  her ;  Betty,  who  had  now  hurried  out  to 
the  balcony,  waved  her  handkerchief  in  farewell  as  long  as 
she  could  see  them. 

Margaret  had  been  at  East  Angels  for  nearly  a  month, 
called  there  by  a  sudden  illness  which  had  attacked  Mrs. 
Rutherford.  It  was  not  a  dangerous  illness ;  but  it  was  one 
that  entailed  a  good  deal  of  suffering,  and  Margaret  had  been 
immediately  summoned. 

By  this  time  everybody  in  Gracias  knew  how  dependent 
"  dear  Katrina "  was  in  reality  upon  her  niece,  in  spite  of 
her  own  majestic  statements  to  the  contrary.  No  one  was 
surprised  therefore,  when,  after  the  new  illness  had  declared 


EAST  ANGELS.  459 

itself,  and  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  said,  plaintively,  that  she 
should  think  Margaret  would  feel  that  she  ought  to  be  there, 
Betty  immediately  sat  down  and  wrote  a  note. 

After  two  weeks  of  suffering,  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  begun 
to  improve.  She  had  now  almost  attained  her  former  com 
paratively  comfortable  condition,  and  Margaret  was  return 
ing  to  the  house  on  the  river. 

The  light  carriage  crossed  the  barren  rapidly ;  the  same 
hushed  silence  continued,  the  pine-trees  which  Betty  had 
seen  in  a  vision,  prostrate,  did  not  stir  so  much  as  one  of 
their  green  needles.  Margaret  and  Winthrop  spoke  occa 
sionally,  but  they  did  not  talk ;  anything  they  should  say 
would  necessarily  be  shared  by  the  man  who  was  driving. 
But  conversation  between  them  was  not  much  more  free 
when  the  steamer  was  taking  them  up  the  river.  They  sat 
on  the  deck  together  at  some  distance  from  the  other  pas 
sengers,  but  their  words  were  few ;  what  they  said  had  even 
a  perfunctory  sound.  They  exchanged  some  remarks  about 
Garda  which  contained  rather  more  of  animation. 

Garda's  last  letter  to  Margaret  had  borne  at  the  head  of 
the  page  the  magic  word  "Venice."  Garda  had  appeared 
to  think  life  there  magical  indeed.  "  She  admires  every 
thing  ;  she  is  delightfully  happy,"  was  Margaret's  comment. 

"How  does  she  say  it?"          , 

"  You  have  heard  her  talk." 

"  Not  as  Mrs.  Lucian  Spenser.     And  from  Venice !" 

"  I  shall  tell  her  to  write  her  next  letter  to  you." 

"I  have  no  doubt  she  would.  I  see  you  are  afraid  to 
quote." 

"  Afraid  ?"  said  Margaret,  in  a  tone  of  cold  inquiry.  And 
then,  with  the  same  cold  intonation,  she  repeated  two  or 
three  of  Garda's  joyous  phrases. 

"  Yes,  she  is  happy  !  Of  course  it's  magnanimous  in  me 
to  say  so,  but  I  owe  her  no  grudge ;  on  the  contrary,  it  has 
been  refreshing  to  see,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  a  girl  so 
frankly  in  love.  She  would  have  married  Lucian  Spenser 
just  the  same  if  they  neither  of  them  had  had  a  cent;  she 
would  have  made  any  sacrifice  for  him  —  don't  you  think 
so?" 

"Yes;  but  it  wouldn't  have  been  a  sacrifice  to  her." 


460  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Bravo !  I  gave  you  such  a  chance  to  say  insidious 
things." 

Margaret  smiled  a  little  at  this  suggestion.  Then,  in  the 
silence  that  followed,  the  old  look  came  back  to  her  face — a 
look  of  guarded  reserve,  which,  however,  evidently  covered 
apprehension. 

She  had,  indeed,  been  in  great  dread.  The  dread  was  lest 
the  agitation  which  had  overpowered  her  during  that  last 
conversation  she  had  had  with  Winthrop  before  she  went 
back  to  her  husband,  should  reappear.  This  brief  journey 
of  theirs  together  was  the  first  perfect  opportunity  he  had 
had  since  then  to  call  it  forth  again  ;  up  to  to-day  there  had 
been  no  opportunity,  she  had  prevented  opportunity.  But 
now  she  was  at  his  mercy  ;  any  one  of  a  hundred  sentences 
which  he  could  so  easily  say,  would  suffice  to  bring  back 
that  emotion  which  suffocated  her,  and  made  her  (as  she 
knew,  though  he  did  not)  powerless.  But,  so  far,  he  had 
said  none  of  these  things.  She  was  grateful  to  him  for 
every  moment  of  the  respite. 

Thus  they  sat  there,  appearing  no  doubt  to  the  other  pas 
sengers  a  sufficiently  happy  and  noticeably  fortunate  pair. 

For  Winthrop  had  about  him  a  certain  look  which,  in 
America,  confers  distinction  —  that  intangible  air  that  be 
longs  to  the  man  who,  well  educated  to  begin  with,  has  gone 
forth  into  the  crowded  course,  and  directed  and  carried  along 
his  fortunes  by  his  own  genius  and  energy  to  the  goal  of 
success.  It  is  a  look  of  power  restrained,  of  comprehension ; 
of  personal  experience,  personal  knowledge ;  not  theory. 
The  unsuccessful  men  who  met  Winthrop — this  very  steam 
er  carried  several  of  them — were  never  angry  with  him  for 
his  good-fortune;  they  could  see  that  he  had  not  always 
been  one  of  the  idle,  though  he  might  be  idle  now  ;  they 
could  see  that  he  knew  that  life  was  difficult,  that  he  had,  as 
they  would  have  expressed  it,  "  been  through  it  himself," 
and  was  not  disposed  to  underrate  its  perplexities,  its  oppres 
sions.  They  could  see,  too,  not  a  few  of  them,  poor  fellows ! 
that  here  was  the  man  who  had  not  allowed  himself  to  dally 
with  the  inertia,  the  dilatoriness,  the  self-indulgent  weakness, 
folly,  or  worse,  which  had  rendered  their  own  lives  so  inef 
fectual.  They  envied  him,  very  possibly  ;  but  they  did  not 


EAST  ANGELS.  461 

hate  him  ;  for  he  was  not  removed  from  them,  set  apart  from 
them,  by  any  bar;  he  was  only  what  they  might  themselves 
have  been,  perhaps;  at  least  what  they  would  have  liked  to  be. 

And  the  women  on  board  all  envied  Margaret.  They 
thought  her  very  fair  as  she  sat  there,  her  eyes  resting  vague 
ly  on  the  water,  her  cheeks  showing  a  faint,  fixed  flush,  the 
curling  waves  of  her  hair  rippling  back  in  a  thick  mass  above 
the  little  ear.  Everything  she  wore  was  so  beautiful,  too — 
from  the  hat,  with  its  waving  plume,  and  the  long  soft  gloves, 
to  the  rich  shawl,  which  lay  where  it  had  fallen  over  the  back 
of  her  chair.  They  were  sure  that  she  was  happy,  because 
she  looked  so  fortunate  ;  any  one  of  them  would  have  changed 
places  with  her  blindly,  without  asking  a  question. 

The  steamer  stopped  at  the  long  pier  which  was  adorned 
with  the  little  post-office.  The  postmaster  had  made  a  dim 
illumination  within  his  official  shanty  by  means  of  a  lantern, 
and  here  Margaret  waited  while  the  boat  was  made  ready  by 
the  negroes  who  were  to  row  them  down  the  five  additional 
miles  of  coast  which  Lanse  had  considered  the  proper  space 
between  himself  and  the  hotel,  to  keep  him  from  feeling 
"  hived  in."  The  night  was  very  dark,  the  water  motionless, 
the  men  rowed  at  a  good  speed ;  the  two  passengers  landed 
at  the  little  home-pier  in  safety,  and  the  negroes  turned  back. 

As  soon  as  Margaret  had  ascended  the  winding  path  far 
enough  to  come  within  sight  of  the  house,  "  No  lights !"  she 
said. 

"That's  nothing,"  Winthrop  answered;  "Lanse  is  proba 
bly  outside  somewhere,  smoking."  Then,  as  the  path  made 
another  turn,  "  If  there  are  no  lights  in  front,  there  are  enough 
at  the  back,"  he  said. 

From  the  rear  of  the  house  light  shone  out  in  a  broad 
glare  from  an  open  door.  Margaret  hurried  thither.  But 
the  kitchen  was  empty  ;  Dinah,  the  old  cook,  her  equally  an 
cient  cousin  Rose,  and  Primus,  the  black  boy,  all  three  were 
absent.  Rapidly  Winthrop  went  through  the  house,  he  found 
no  one ;  Lanse's  room,  as  well  as  the  parlor  and  dining-room, 
appeared  not  to  have  been  used  that  day,  while  the  smaller 
rooms  occupied  by  the  two  men  who  were  in  attendance  upon 
him  had  an  even  more  deserted  air. 

"Their  trunks  are  gone,"  said  Margaret,  who  met  Win- 


462  EAST  ANGELS. 

throp  here.  "It  is  all  so  strange!"  she  murmured,  looking 
at  him  as  if  for  some  solution,  her  eyes  dark  in  the  yellow 
light  of  the  lamp  she  held. 

Winthrop  agreed  with  her  in  thinking  it  strange ;  but  he 
did  not  tell  her  so.  They  went  back  to^the  kitchen,  none  of 
the  servants  had  returned. 

"They  are  probably  somewhere  about  the  grounds;  but 
you  must  sit  down  and  rest  while  I  go  and  look  for  them  ; 
you  are  tired." 

"  No,  I'm  not  tired,"  answered  Margaret,  contradicting  this 
statement. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  authoritatively.  Taking  the  lamp  from 
her,  he  led  the  way  towards  the  parlor  which  she  had  made 
so  pretty. 

She  followed  him,  and  sank  into  the  easy-chair  he  drew 
forward.  "  Don't  wait,"  she  said. 

"  But  if  you  feel  ill—" 

"  It's  nothing,  I'm  only  nervous." 

"  I  shall  probably  bring  them  back  in  five  minutes." 

But  twenty  minutes  passed  before  he  returned  with  Dinah 
and  Rose,  whom  he  had  found  some  distance  down  the  shore. 
The  two  old  women  were  much  excited,  and  voluble.  Their 
story  was  that  "  Marse  Horrel "  must  be  "  lorse ;"  he  had 
started  early  that  morning  in  his  canoe  to  go  up  the  Juana, 
and  had  not  returned ;  when  it  grew  towards  evening,  as  he 
had  never  before  been  out  so  long,  they  had  become  alarmed, 
and  had  sent  Primus  over  to  East  Angels ;  the  steamer  that 
had  carried  him,  and  the  one  that  had  brought  "  Mis'  Horrel " 
back,  must  have  passed  each  other  on  the  way.  They  did 
not  send  Primus  to  the  hotel,  because  "  Marse  Horrel,"  he 
"'spizes  monstous  fer  ter  hev  de  hotel  fokes  roun';"  they 
evidently  stood  in  awe  of  anything  "  Marse  Horrel "  should 
"  'spize."  And  they  did  not  send  Primus  up  the  Juana,  be 
cause  "  Prime,  he  sech  a  borned  fool,"  they  "  dassent "  trust 
only  to  that.  So  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  they  had  sent 
him  to  East  Angels  for  orders ;  of  course  they  had  no  idea 
that  "  Mis'  Horrel "  was  on  her  way  back. 

Where  were  the  two  men  ?  Dodd  had  been  gone  a  week, 
"Marse  Horrel  "  had  dismissed  him  ;  he  said  he  was  so  well 
now  that  he  did  not  need  the  two.  And  Elliot?  "Marse 


EAST  ANGELS.  463 

Horrel "  had  sent  him  "  day  befo'  yesserday  "  up  the  river 
on  an  "  arr'nd,"  they  did  not  know  what ;  he  was  to  return, 
they  did  not  know  when. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  Lanse,"  said  Margaret,  draw 
ing  Winthrop  away  a  few  paces  when  at  last  she  had  extract 
ed  these  facts  from  the  mass  of  confusing  repetitions,  ejacu 
lations,  and  long,  unintelligible  phrases  in  which  Dinah  and 
Rose  had  enveloped  them.  The  little  old  creatures,  who  were 
of  exactly  the  same  height,  wore  scarlet  handkerchiefs  bound 
round  their  heads  in  the  shape  of  high  cones ;  as  they  told 
their  story,  standing  close  together,  their  skinny  hands  clasp 
ed  upon  their  breasts,  their  great  eyes  rolling,  they  might 
have  been  two  African  witches,  just  arrived  on  broomsticks 
from  the  Cameroon s. 

"  The  nearest  house  is  the  hotel,"  said  Winthrop ;  "  of 
course  that  boat  is  beyond  call."  But  there  was  a  chance 
that  it  might  not  be,  and  he  hurried  down  to  the  landing; 
Margaret  followed. 

There  was  no  sound  of  oars.  He  hailed  loudly,  once,  twice ; 
no  one  answered.  "  I  shall  have  to  go  to  the  hotel  myself," 
he  said. 

"  That  would  take  too  long,  it's  five  miles ;  it  would  be  at 
least  two  hours  before  a  boat  and  men  from  there  could  get 
here,  and  in  that  two  hours  you  could  find  Lanse  yourself, 
and  bring  him  in." 

"  You  speak  as  though  you  knew  where  he  was." 

"  So  I  do,  he  is  in  the  Monnlungs  swamp.  For  a  long 
while  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of  going  up  there  every  day ; 
I  have  been  with  him  a  number  of  times,  that  is,  I  have  fol 
lowed  in  the  larger  boat  with  one  of  the  men  to  row.  Lanse 
is  there  now,  and  something  has  happened  to  him  ;  either 
the  canoe  has  been  wrecked,  or  else  he  has  hurt  himself  in 
some  way  so  that  he  can't  paddle ;  the  great  thing  is  to  get 
him  in  before  the  storm  breaks;  we  can't  possibly  wait  to 
send  to  the  hotel." 

The  two  negresses  who  had  left  them,  now  returned,  each 
carrying  a  light;  apparently  they  supposed  that  great  illu 
mination  would  be  required,  for  they  had  brought  out  the 
two  largest  parlor-lamps,  and  now  stood  holding  them  care 
fully. 


464  EAST  ANGELS. 

"Bring  your  lamps  this  way,  since  you've  got  them,"  said 
Winthrop.  He  went  towards  the  boats. 

"  That  is  the  best,"  said  Margaret,  touching  the  edge  oi 
one  of  them  with  the  tip  of  her  slender  boot. 

The  negresses  stood  on  the  low  bank  above,  by  the  light 
of  the  great  globes  they  held,  Winthrop  examined  the  canoe. 
It  was  in  good  order,  the  paddle  was  lying  within. 

"  Now  tell  me  how  to  get  there,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,  you  don't  know  the  way  !"  Margaret  ex 
claimed,  a  sudden  realization  that  was  almost  panic  showing 
itself  in  her  voice. 

"  No,  I  don't  know  it.     But  probably  you  can  tell  me." 

She  stood  thinking.  "  No,  it's  impossible.  Dark  as  it  is, 
you  might  not  even  find  the  mouth  of  the  Juana,  there  are 
so  many  creeks.  And  all  the  false  channels  in  the  swamp — 
No,  I  shall  have  to  go  with  you ;  I  will  take  Rose,  possibly 
she  can  be  of  use." 

But  quickly  old  Rose  handed  her  great  lamp  to  Dinah, 
and  jerked  herself  down  on  her  thin  knees.  "  Please,  missy, 
no.  Not  inter  de  Munloons  in  de  night,  no!  Ghossesses 
dar !"  She  brought  this  out  in  a  high  shrill  voice,  her  broad 
flat  features  working  in  a  sort  of  spasm,  her  great  eyes  fixed 
beseechingly  on  her  mistress's  face. 

"You,  then,  Dinah,"  said  Margaret,  impatiently.  But  in 
spite  of  her  rheumatic  joints,  Rose  was  on  her  feet  in  an  in 
stant,  and  had  taken  the  lamps,  while  Dinah,  in  her  turn, 
prostrated  herself. 

"  You're  perfectly  absurd,  both  of  you !"  Margaret  ex 
claimed. 

"  Poor  old  creatures,  you're  rather  hard  on  them,  aren't 
you  ?"  said  Winthrop  from  the  boat. 

"Yes,  I'm  hard  !"  She  said  this  .with  a  little  motion  of 
her  clinched  hand  backward — a  motion  which,  though  slight, 
was  yet  almost  violent. 

"  We  must  lose  no  more  time,"  she  went  on.  "  Go  to  the 
house,  Rose — I  suppose  you  can  do  that — and  bring  me  the 
wraps  I  usually  take  when  I  go  out  in  the  canoe,  the  lantern 
and  some  candles — " 

"  No,"  said  Winthrop,  interposing ;  "  let  her  bring  pitch-pine 
knots,  or,  better  still,  torches,  if  they  happen  to  have  them." 


EAST  ANGELS.  465 

It  appeared  that  "  Prime  "  always  kept  a  supply  of  torch 
es  ready,  and  old  Rose  hurried  off. 

Margaret  stepped  into  the  boat ;  she  stood  a  moment  be 
fore  taking  her  seat.  "  I  wish  I  could  go  by  myself,"  she 
said. 

"  You  know  how  to  paddle,  then  ?"  Winthrop  asked, 
shortly. 

"  No,  that's  it,  I  don't ;  at  least  I  cannot  paddle  well.  I 
should  only  delay  everything,  it  would  be  ridiculous."  She 
seated  herself,  and  a  moment  later  Rose  appeared  with  the 
wraps  and  a  great  armful  of  torches. 

Both  of  the  old  women  were  quivering  with  wild  excite 
ment  ;  agitated  by  gratitude  at  being  spared  the  ordeal  of 
the  haunted  swamp  by  night,  they  were  equally  agitated  by 
the  thought  of  what  their  mistress  would  have  to  encounter 
there  ;  they  shuffled  their  great  shoes  against  each  other,  they 
mumbled  fragments  of  words ;  they  seemed  to  have  lost  all 
control  of  their  mouths,  for  they  grinned  constantly,  though 
their  breath  came  almost  in  sobs.  As  Winthrop  pushed  off, 
suddenly  they  broke  out  into  a  loud  hymn : 

"  Didn't  my  Lawd  delibber  Dan-yell,  Dan-yell  ? 
Didn't  my  Lawd  delibber  Z>cw-yell  ?" 

For  a  long  distance  up  the  stream  this  protective  invoca 
tion  echoed  after  the  voyagers,  and  the  two  grotesque  figures 
holding  the  lamps  remained  brightly  visible  on  the  low  shore. 

"  Turn  in  now,  and  coast  along  close  to  the  land,"  said 
Margaret;  "it's  so  dark  that  even  with  that  I  am  almost 
afraid  I  shall  miss  the  mouth." 

But  she  did  not  miss  it.  In  ten  minutes  she  said,  "  Here 
it  is ;"  and  she  directed  him  how  to  enter. 

"I  should  never  have  found  it  myself;  it's  so  narrow," 
Winthrop  commented,  as  he  guided  the  canoe  towards  an 
almost  imperceptible  opening  in  the  near  looming  forest. 

"  That  was  what  I  couldn't  guard  you  against." 

But  the  mouth  was  the  narrowest  part ;  inside  the  stream 
widened  out,  and  was  broad  and  deep.  Winthrop  sent  the 
boat  forward  with  strong  strokes,  the  pine  torch  which  Mar 
garet  had  fastened  at  the  bow  cast  a  short  ray  in  advance. 

"  I  think  we  shall  escape  the  storm,"  she  said. 
30 


466  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  It's  holding  off  wonderfully.     But  don't  be  too  sure." 

They  did  not  speak  often.  Winthrop  was  attending  to 
the  boat's  course,  Margaret  had  turned  and  was  sitting  so 
that  she  could  scan  the  water  and  direct  him  a  little.  Her 
nervousness  had  disappeared ;  either  she  had  been  able  to  re 
press  it,  or  it  had  faded  in  the  presence  of  the  responsibility 
she  had  assumed  in  undertaking  to  act  as  guide  through  that 
strange  water-land  of  the  Monnlungs,  whose  winding  chan 
nels  she  had  heretofore  seen  only  in  the  light  of  day.  Even 
in  the  light  of  day  they  were  mysterious ;  the  enormous 
trees,  thickly  foliaged  at  the  top,  kept  the  sun  from  penetrat 
ing  to  the  water,  the  masses  of  vines  shut  out  still  further 
the  light,  and  shut  in  the  perfumes  of  the  myriad  flowers. 
Channels  opened  out  on  all  sides.  Only  one  was  the  right 
one.  Should  she  be  able  to  follow  it?  the  landmarks  she 
knew  —  certain  banks  of  shrubs,  a  tree  trunk  of  peculiar 
shape,  a  sharp  bend,  a  small  bay  full  of  "knees" — should 
she  know  these  again  by  night?  There  came  to  her  sudden 
ly  the  memory  of  a  little  arena — an  arena  where  the  flower 
ing  vines  hung  straight  down  from  the  tree-tops  to  the  wa 
ter  all  round,  like  tapestry,  and  where  the  perfumes  were 
densely  thick. 

"Are  you  cold?"  said  Winthrop.  "You  can't  be — this 
warm  night."  The  slightness  of  the  canoe  had  betrayed 
what  he  thought  was  a  shiver. 

"  No,  I'm  not  cold." 

"  The  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  make  the  boat  as  bright 
as  possible,"  he  went  on.  "  But  not  in  front,  that  would 
only  be  blinding;  the  light  must  be  behind  us."  He  took 
the  torch  from  the  bow,  lighted  three  others,  and  stuck  them 
all  into  the  canoe's  lining  of  thin  strips  of  wood  at  the  stern. 
Primus  had  made  his  torches  long;  it  would  be  an  hour  be 
fore  they  could  burn  down  sufficiently  to  endanger  the  boat. 

Thus,  casting  a  brilliant  orange-haed  glow  round  them, 
lighting  up  the  dark  water  vistas  to  the  right  and  left  as 
they  passed,  they  penetrated  into  the  dim  sweet  swamp. 


EAST  ANGELS.  407 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THEY  had  been  in  the  Monnlungs  half  an  hour.  Marga 
ret  acted  as  pilot ;  half  kneeling,  half  sitting  at  the  bow,  one 
hand  on  the  canoe's  edge,  her  face  turned  forward,  she  gave 
her  directions  slowly,  all  her  powers  concentrated  upon  re 
calling  correctly  and  keeping  unmixed  from  present  impres 
sions  her  memory  of  the  channel.  . 

The  present  impressions  were  indeed  so  strange,  that  a 
strong  exertion  of  will  was  necessary  to  prevent  the  mind 
from  becoming  fascinated  by  them,  from  forgetting  in  this 
series  of  magic  pictures  the  different  aspect  of  these  same 
vistas  by  day.  Even  by  day  the  vistas  were  alluring.  By 
night,  lighted  up  by  the  flare  of  the  approaching  torches,  at 
first  vaguely,  then  brilliantly,  then  vanishing  into  darkness 
again  behind,  they  became  unearthly,  exceeding  in  contrasts 
of  color — reds,  yellows,  and  green,  all  of  them  edged  sharply 
with  the  profoundest  gloom — the  most  striking  effects  of 
the  painters  who  have  devoted  their  lives  to  reproducing 
light  and  shade. 

Lanse  had  explored  a  part  of  the  Monnlungs.  He  had 
not  explored  it  all,  no  human  eye  had  as  yet  beheld  some  of 
its  mazes ;  but  the  part  he  had  explored  he  knew  well,  he 
had  even  made  a  map  of  it.  Margaret  had  seen  this  map; 
she  felt  sure,  too,  that  she  should  know  the  channels  he 
called  the  Lanes.  Her  idea,  upon  entering,  had  been  to  fol 
low  the  main  stream  to  the  first  of  these  lanes,  there  turn  off 
and  explore  the  lane  to  its  end ;  then,  returning  to  the  main 
channel,  to  go  on  to  the  second  lane ;  and  so  on  through 
Lanse's  part  of  the  swamp.  They  had  now  explored  two  of 
the  lanes,  and  were  entering  a  third. 

She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  thrown  it  down  upon  the 
cloak  beside  her.  "  It's  so  oppressively  warm  in  here,"  she 
said. 

It  was  Trot  oppressively  warm — not  warmer  than  a  June 


468  EAST  ANGELS. 

night  at  the  North.  But  the  air  was  perfectly  still,  and  so 
sweet  that  it  was  enervating. 

The  forest  grew  denser  along  this  third  lane  as  they  ad 
vanced.  The  trees  stood  nearer  together,  and  silver  moss 
now  began  to  hang  down  in  long,  filmy  veils,  thicker  and 
thicker,  from  all  the  branches.  Mixed  with  the  moss,  vines 
showed  themselves  in  strange  convolutions,  they  went  up 
out  of  sight ;  in  girth  they  were  as  large  as  small  trees ;  they 
appeared  to  have  not  a  leaf,  but  to  be  dry,  naked,  chocolate- 
brown  growths,  twisting  themselves  about  hither  and  thither 
for  their  own  entertainment. 

This  was  the  appearance  below.  But  above,  there  was 
another  story  to  tell ;  for  here  were  interminable  flat  beds 
of  broad  green  leaves,  spread  out  over  the  outside  of  the  roof 
of  foliage — leaves  that  belonged  to  these  same  naked  coiling 
growths  below ;  the  vines  had  found  themselves  obliged  to 
climb  to  the  very  top  in  order  to  get  a  ray  of  sunshine  for 
their  greenery. 

For  there  was  no  sky  for  anybody  in  the  Monnlungs ;  the 
deep  solid  roof  of  interlocked  branches  stretched  miles  long, 
miles  wide,  like  a  close  tight  cover,  over  the  entire  place. 
The  general  light  of  day  came  filtering  through,  dyed  with 
much  green,  quenched  into  blackness  at  the  ends  of  the 
vistas ;  but  actual  sunbeams  never  came,  never  gleamed,  year 
in  year  out,  across  the  clear  darkness  of  the  broad  water 
floor. 

The  water  on  this  floor  was  always  pellucid ;  whether  it 
was  the  deep  current  of  the  main  channel,  or  the  shallower 
tide  that  stood  motionless  over  all  the  rest  of  the  expanse, 
nowhere  was  there  the  least  appearance  of  mud;  the  lake 
and  the  streams,  red-brown  in  hue,  were  as  clear  as  so  much 
fine  wine ;  the  tree  trunks  rose  cleanly  from  this  transparent 
tide,  their  huge  roots  could  be  seen  coiling  on  the  bottom 
much  as  the  great  vines  coiled  in  the  air  above.  These  gray- 
white  bald  cypresses  had  a  monumental  aspect,  like  the  col 
umns  of  a  Gothic  cathedral,  as  they  rose,  erect  and  branch 
less,  disappearing  above  in  the  mist  of  the  moss.  The  moss 
presently  began  to  take  on  an  additional  witchery  by  becom 
ing  decked  with  flowers ;  up  to  a  certain  height  these  flow 
ers  had  their  roots  in  the  earth ;  but  above  these  were  other 


EAST  ANGELS.  469 

blossoms — air-plants,  some  vividly  tinted,  flaring,  and  gap 
ing,  others  so  small  and  so  flat  on  the  moss  that  they  were 
like  the  embroidered  flowers  on  lace,  only  they  were  done  in 
colors. 

"  I  detest  this  moss,"  said  Margaret,  as  it  grew  thicker  and 
thicker,  so  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  silver 
webs ;  "  I  feel  strangled  in  it, — suffocated." 

"  Oh,  but  it's  beautiful,"  said  Winthrop.  "  Don't  you  see 
the  colors  it  takes  on  ?  Gray,  then  silver,  then  almost  pink 
as  we  pass ;  then  gray  and  ghostly  again." 

For  all  answer  she  called  her  husband's  name.  She  had 
called  it  in  this  way  at  intervals  ever  since  they  entered  the 
swamp. 

"  The  light  we  carry  penetrates  much  farther  than  your 
voice,"  Winthrop  remarked. 

"  I  want  him  to  know  who  it  is." 

"  Oh,  he'll  know — such  a  devoted  wife  !  Who  else  could 
it  be?" 

After  a  while  the  lane  made  a  bend,  and  led  them  away 
from  the  moss ;  the  canoe,  turning  to  the  right,  left  behind 
it  the  veiled  forest,  white  and  motionless.  Margaret  drew  a 
long  breath,  she  shook  herself  slightly,  like  a  person  who  has 
emerged. 

"  You  have  on  your  jewels  again,"  he  said,  as  the  move 
ment  caused  the  torch-light  to  draw  a  gleam  from  something 
in  her  hair. 

She  put  up  her  hand  as  if  she  had  forgotten  what  was 
there.  "Jewels?  Only  a  gold  arrow."  She  adjusted  it 
mechanically. 

"  Jewels  enough  on  your  hands,  then.  You  didn't  honor 
us  with  a  sight  of  them — while  you  were  at  East  Angels,  I 
mean." 

**  I  don't  care  for  them ;  I  put  them  on  this  morning  be 
fore  I  started,  because  Lanse  likes  them." 

"So  do  I.  Unwillingly,  you  also  please  me;  of  course  I 
never  dreamed  that  I  should  have  so  much  time  to  admire 
them — parading  by  torch-light  in  this  way  through  a  great 
morass." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  They  bring  you  out,  you  know,  in  spite  of  yourself — 


470  EAST  ANGELS. 

drag  you  out,  if  you  like  better ;  they  show  what  you  might 
be,  if  you  would  ever — let  yourself  go." 

"  Let  myself  go  ?     You  use  strange  expressions." 

"  A  man  isn't  responsible  for  what  he  says  in  here." 

"  You  say  that  a  second  time !  You  know  there  was  no 
other  way ;  the  only  hope  of  getting  Lanse  home  before  the 
storm  was  to  start  at  once." 

"  The  storm — to  be  sure.  I  don't  believe  it  ever  storms 
in  here." 

She  turned  towards  him.     "  You  know  I  had  to  come." 

"I  know  you  thought  so;  you  thought  we  should  find 
Lanse  sitting  encamped  on  two  cypress  knees,  with  the  wreck 
of  his  canoe  for  a  seat.  We  should  dawn  upon  him  like 
comets.  And  he  would  say,  '  How  long  you've  been !  It's 
precious  damp  in  here,  you  know  !' " 

She  turned  impatiently  towards  the  channel  again. 

"  Don't  demand  too  much,  Margaret,"  he  went  on.  "  Jest- 
ing's  safe,  at  any  rate.  Sympathy  I  haven't  got — sympathy 
for  this  expedition  of  yours  into  this  jungle  at  this  time  of 
night." 

She  had  now  recovered  her  composure.  "  So  long  as  you 
paddle  the  boat,  sympathy  isn't  necessary." 

"  Oh,  I'll  paddle !  But  I  shall  have  to  paddle  forever,  we 
shall  never  get  out.  We've  come  to  an  antediluvian  forest 
— don't  you  see  ?  a  survival.  But  we  sha'n't  survive.  They'll 
write  our  biographies ;  I  was  wondering  the  other  day  if  there 
was  any  other  kind  of  literature  so  completely  composed  of 
falsehoods,  owing  to  half  being  kept  back,  as  biographies ;  I 
decided  that  there  was  one  other — autobiographies." 

On  both  sides  of  them  now  the  trees  were,  in  girth,  enor 
mous  ;  the  red  light,  gleaming  out  fitfully,  did  not  seem  to 
belong  to  them  or  to  their  torches,  but  to  be  an  independent 
glow,  coming  from  no  one  knew  where. 

"  If  we  had  the  grace  to  have  any  imagination  left  in  this 
bicycle  century  of  ours,"  remarked  Winthrop,  "  we  should 
certainly  be  expecting  to  see  some  mammoth  water  creature, 
fifty  feet  long,  lifting  a  flabby  head  here.  For  my  own  part, 
I  am  afraid  my  imagination,  never  very  brilliant,  is  defunct ; 
the  most  I  can  do  is  to  think  of  the  thousands  of  snakes 
there  must  be,  squirming  about  under  all  this  water, — not 


EAST  ANGELS.  471 

prehistoric  at  all,  nor  mammoths,  but  just  nice  natural  every 
day  little  moccasins,  say  about  seven  feet  long." 

Margaret  shuddered. 

He  stopped  his  banter,  his  voice  changed.  "Do  let  me  take 
you  home,"  he  urged.  "  You're  tired  out;  give  this  thing  up." 

u  I  am  not  tired." 

"  You  have  been  tired  'to  the  verge  of  death  for  months !" 

"  You  know  nothing  about  that,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  have  seen  your  face,  and  I  know  its  expres 
sions  now;  I  didn't  at  first,  but  now  I  do.  There's  no  use 
in  your  trying  to  deceive  me  Margaret,  I  know  what  your 
life  is ;  remember,  Lanse  told  me  everything." 

"  That  was  long  ago." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  He  leaned  forward  and  grasped 
her  arm  as  though  he  would  make  her  turn. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  reply.  Then,  "  A  great  deal 
may  have  happened  since  then,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  believe  you!"  He  dropped  her  arm.  "You 
say  that  to  stop  me,  keep  me  back ;  you  are  afraid  of  me !" 
He  took  up  his  paddle  again. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid."  "Then,  putting  a  little  note  of  con 
tempt  into  her  voice :  "  And  wasn't  I  right  to  be  afraid  ?" 
she  added.  She  drew  the  arm  he  had  touched  close  to  her 
waist,  and  held  it  there. 

"  No  !"  answered  Winthrop,  loudly  and  angrily ;  "  you 
were  completely  wrong."  He  sent  the  canoe  forward  with 
rapid  strokes. 

They  went  to  the  end  of  the  lane,  then  returned  to  the 
main  channel,  still  in  silence.  But  here  it  became  necessary 
again  for  Margaret  to  give  directions. 

"  Go  as  far  as  that  pool  of  knees,"  she  began ;  "  then  turn 
to  the  right." 

"  You  are  determined  to  keep  on  ?" 

" I  must;  that  is,  I  must  if  you  will  take  me." 

He  sat  without  moving. 

"  If  anything  should  happen  to  Lanse  that  I  might  have 
prevented  by  keeping  on  now,  how  could  I  ever — " 

"Oh,  keep  on,  keep  on;  bring  him  safely  home  and  take 
every  care  of  him — he  has  done  so  much  to  deserve  these 
efforts  on  your  part !" 


±72  EAST  ANGELS. 

They  went  on. 

And  now  the  stream  was  bringing  them  towards  the  place 
Margaret  had  thought  of  upon  entering — a  bower  in  the 
heart  of  the  Monnlungs,  or  rather  a  long  defile  like  a  chink 
between  two  high  cliffs,  the  cliffs  being  a  dense  mass  of  flow 
ering  shrubs. 

Winthrop  made  no  comment  as  they  entered  this  blossom 
ing  pass,  Margaret  did  not  speak.  The  air  was  loaded  with 
sweetness ;  she  put  her  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  canoe  to 
steady  herself.  Then  she  looked  up  as  if  in  search  of  fresh 
er  air,  or  to  see  how  high  the  flowers  ascended.  But  there 
was  no  fresher  air,  and  the  flowers  went  up  out  of  sight. 

The  defile  grew  narrower,  the  atmosphere  became  so  heavy 
that  they  could  taste  the  perfume  in  their  mouths.  After 
another  five  minutes  Margaret  drew  a  long  breath — she  had 
apparently  been  trying  to  breathe  as  little  as  possible.  "  I 
don't  think  I  can — I  am  afraid — "  She  swayed,  then  sank 
softly  down  ;  she  had  fainted. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  laid  her  on  the  canoe's 
bottom,  her  head  on  the  cloak.  He  looked  at  the  water,  but 
the  thought  of  the  dark  tide's  touching  that  fair  face  was 
repugnant  to  him.  He  bent  down  and  spoke  to  her,  and 
smoothed  her  hair.  But  that  was  advancing  nothing,  and 
he  began  to  chafe  her  hands. 

Then  suddenly  he  rose,  and,  taking  the  paddle,  sent  the 
canoe  flying  along  between  the  high  bushes.  The  air  was 
visibly  thick  in  the  red  light  of  the  torches,  a  miasma  of 
scent.  A  branch  of  small  blossoms  with  the  perfume  of 
heliotrope  softly  brushed  against  his  cheek,  he  struck  it 
aside  with  unnecessary  violence.  Exerting  all  his  strength, 
he  at  last  got  the  canoe  free  from  the  beautiful  baleful  place. 

When  Margaret  opened  her  eyes  they  were  outside ;  she 
was  lying  peacefully  on  the  cloak,  and  he  was  still  paddling 
vehemently. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  she  said,  as  she  raised  herself.  "  I  sup 
pose  I  fainted  ?  Perfumes  have  a  great  effect  upon  me  al 
ways.  I  know  that  place  well,  I  thought  of  it  before  we 
entered  the  swamp  ;  I  thought  it  would  make  me  dizzy,  but 
I  had  no  idea  that  it  would  make  me  faint  away.  It  has 
never  done  so  before,  the  scents  must  be  stronger  at  night." 


EAST  ANGELS.  473 

She  still  seemed  weak;  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 
Then  a  thought  came  to  her,  she  sat  up  and  looked  about, 
scanning  the  trees  anxiously.  "  I  hope  you  haven't  gone 
wrong?  How  far  are  we  from  the  narrow  place— the  place 
where  I  fainted  ?" 

"I  don't  know  how  far.  But  we  haven't  been  out  of  it 
more  than  five  or  six  minutes,  and  this  is  certainly  the  chan 
nel." 

''Nothing  is  'certainly'  in  the  Monnlungs!  And  five 
minutes  is  quite  enough  time  to  get  lost  in.  I  don't  recog 
nize  anything  here — we  ought  to  be  in  sight  of  a  tree  that 
has  a  profile,  like  a  face." 

"  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  know  it  at  night." 

"  It's  unmistakable.  No,  I  am  sure  we  are  wrong.  Please 
go  back — go  back  at  once  to  the  narrow  place." 

"Where  is  'back?'"  murmured  Winthrop  to  himself,  af 
ter  he  had  surveyed  the  water  behind  him. 

And  the  question  was  a  necessary  one.  What  he  had 
thought  was  "  certainly  the  channel "  seemed  to  exist  only 
in  front ;  there  was  no  channel  behind,  there  were  only  broad 
tree -filled  water  spaces,  vague  and  dark.  They  could  see 
nothing  of  the  thicker  foliage  of  the  "  narrow  place." 

Margaret  clasped  her  hands.     "  We're  lost !" 

"  No,  we're  not  lost ;  at  least  we  were  not  seven  minutes 
ago.  It  won't  take  long  to  go  over  all  the  water  that  is 
seven  minutes  from  here."  He  took  out  one  of  the  torches 
and  inserted  it  among  the  roots  of  a  cypress,  so  that  it  could 
hold  itself  upright.  "That's  our  guide;  we  can  always 
come  back  to  that,  and  start  again." 

Margaret  no  longer  tried  to  direct ;  she  sat  with  her  face 
towards  him,  leaving  the  guidance  to  him. 

He  started  back  in  what  he  thought  was  the  course  they 
had  just  traversed.  But  they  did  not  come  to  the  defile  of 
flowers ;  and  suddenly  they  lost  sight  of  their  beacon. 

"  We  shall  see  it  again  in  a  moment,"  he  said. 

But  they  did  not  see  it.  They  floated  in  and  out  among 
the  great  cypresses,  he  plunged  his  paddle  down  over  the 
side,  and  struck  bottom ;  they  were  out  of  the  channel  and 
in  the  shallows — the  great  Monnlungs  Lake. 

"  We  don't  see  it  yet,"  she  said.     Then  she  gave  a  cry, 


474  EAST  ANGELS, 

and  shrank  towards  him.  They  had  floated  close  to  one  of 
the  trees,  and  there  on  its  trunk,  not  three  feet  from  her, 
was  a  creature  of  the  lizard  family,  large,  gray-white  in  hue 
like  the  bark,  flat,  and  yet  fat ;  it  moved  its  short  legs  slow 
ly  in  the  light  of  their  torches ;  no  doubt  it  was  experienc 
ing  a  sensation  of  astonishment,  there  had  never  been  in  its 
memory  a  bright  light  in  the  Monnlungs  before. 

Winthrop  laughed,  it  did  him  good  to  see  Margaret  Har 
old  cowering  and  shuddering  over  such  a  slight  cause  as 
that.  The  boat  had  floated  where  it  listed  for  a  moment  or 
two  while  he  laughed,  and  now  he  caught  sight  of  their 
beacon  again. 

"  That  laugh  was  lucky,"  he  said,  as  he  paddled  rapidly 
back  towards  the  small  light-house.  "Now  I  shall  go  in 
exactly  the  wrong  direction — I  mean  what  seems  such  to 
me." 

"  Oh,  must  we  go  again  ?" 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  wish  to  remain  permanently  float 
ing  at  the  foot  of  this  tree?"  He  looked  at  her.  "You 
think  we're  lost,  you're  frightened.  We're  not  lost  at  all, 
and  I  know  exactly  what  to  do ;  trust  yourself  to  me,  I  will 
bring  you  safely  out." 

"  You  don't  know  this  swamp,  it's  not  so  easy.  I'm  think 
ing  of  myself." 

"  I  know  you  are  not.  But  /  think  of  nothing  else." 
He  said  this  impetuously  enough. 

They  started  on  their  second  search.  And  at  the  end  of 
five  minutes  they  had  again  lost  sight  of  their  beacon.  He 
paddled  to  the  right  and  back  again  ;  then  off  to  the  left 
and  back;  he  went  forward  a  little  way,  then  in  the  opposite 
direction  ;  but  they  did  not  see  the  gleam  of  their  guide,  nor 
did  they  find  the  defile  of  flowers. 

Suddenly  there  rose,  close  to  them,  a  cry.  It  was  not 
loud,  but  it  was  thrilling,  it  conveyed  an  impression  of  ag 
onized  fear. 

"What  was  that?"  said  Margaret.  She  did  not  speak  the 
words  aloud,  but  syllabled  them  with  her  lips ;  involuntarily 
she  drew  nearer  to  him. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  was  myself,  exactly,"  he  answered  ; 
"  some  bird  or  other  small  creature,  probably,  caught  by  a 


EAST  ANGELS.  475 

snake  or  alligator.  It  only  sounded  strange  because  it  is  so 
still  here,  our  nerves  are  affected,  I  presume." 

"You  mean  that  mine^are.  I  know  they  are,  I  will  try 
to  be  more  sensible." 

He  pursued  his  tentative  course.  But  the  watery  vistas 
seemed  only  to  grow  wilder.  They  never  had  a  desolate 
appearance;  on  the  contrary  there  was  something  indescrib 
ably  luxuriant,  riotously  so,  in  the  still  lake  with  its  giant 
trees,  its  scented  air,  its  masses  of  flowers.  At  length  some 
thing  dark,  that  was  not  a  tree  trunk,  nor  a  group  of  tree 
trunks,  loomed  up  on  their  right.  Their  torches  outlined  it 
more  plainly ;  it  was  square  and  low. 

" It's  a  house"  Margaret  said,  in  the  same  repressed  whis 
per.  "  Oh,  don't  go  near  it !" 

"Why — it's  deserted,  can't  you  see  that?  There's  no  liv 
ing  thing  there,  unless  you  count  ghosts — there  may  be  the 
ghost  of  some  fugitive  slave.  The  door,  I  suppose,  is  on 
the  other  side."  And  he  paddled  towards  it. 

The  cabin — it  was  no  more  than  a  cabin — had  been  built 
upon  the  great  roots  of  four  cypresses,  which  had  happened 
to  stand  in  a  convenient  position  for  such  a  purpose ;  the 
planks  of  the  floor  had  been  nailed  down  across  these,  and 
the  sides  formed  of  rough  boards  braced  by  small  beams 
which  stretched  back  to  the  tree  trunks ;  the  roof  was  a  net 
work  of  the  large  vines  of  the  swamp,  thickly  thatched  with 
the  gray  moss,  now  black  with  age  and  decay.  The  door 
was  gone ;  Winthrop  brought  the  boat  up  towards  the  dark 
entrance ;  the  sill  was  but  an  inch  or  two  above  the  water. 

They  looked  within,  the  light  from  their  torches  illuminat 
ing  the  central  portion.  And  as  they  looked,  they  saw  a 
slight  waving  motion  on  the  floor.  Were  the  planks  oscil 
lating  a  little,  or  was  it  dark  water  flowing  over  the  place  ? 

At  first  they  could  not  distinguish ;  then  in  another  in 
stant  they  could.  It  was  not  water;  it  was  the  waving, 
squirming  bodies  of  snakes. 

Winthrop  had  given  the  canoe  a  quick  swerve.  But  be 
fore  they  could  have  counted  one,  the  creatures,  soundlessly, 
had  all  disappeared. 

"  Men  are  queer  animals,"  he  said  ;  "  I  should  have  liked 
one  more  good  peep  ?  But  of  course  I  won't  go  back." 


476  EAST  ANGELS. 

«  Yes— go." 

"You  are  prepared  to  humor  me  in  everything?  Well, 
it  won't  take  an  instant."  They  were  but  ten  feet  away ; 
he  gave  a  stroke  with  his  paddle  and  brought  the  canoe  up 
to  the  entrance  again. 

Within  there  was  now  nothing,  their  torch-light  shone  on 
the  bare  glistening  boards  of  the  floor.  But  stay — yes,  there 
was;  something  white  in  one  corner;  he  took  one  of  the 
torches,  and  held  it  within  for  a  moment.  Margaret  gave  a, 
cry;  the  light  was  shining  on  bones  —  a  white  br.eastbone 
with  the  ribs  attached,  and  larger  bones  near. 

He  threw  the  torch  into  the  water,  where  it  went  out  with 
a  hiss,  and  sent  the  canoe  rapidly  away.  This  time  he  did 
not  stop. 

Margaret  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  Well,"  he 
said,  still  urging  the  light  boat  along,  "  the  last  hunter  who 
occupied  that  cabin  was  not  as  tidy  in  his  habits  as  he  might 
have  been ;  he  left  the  remains  of  the  last  bear  he  had  had 
for  dinner  behind  him." 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked,  without  looking  up,  still 
shuddering. 

"  Perfectly." 

Winthrop  held  that  in  some  cases  a  lie  was  right. 

He  paddled  on  for  a  few  minutes  more. 

"  Here's  your  reward  for  humoring  me.  Isn't  this  the 
'  narrow  place  ? ' ' 

And  it  was. 

"  Now  that  we've  found  it,  hadn't  we  better  try  to  go 
back  ?"  he  suggested. 

"  I  will  do  as  you  think  best." 

"  You're  thoroughly  cowed,  aren't  you  ?  By  the  skeleton 
of  a  bear." 

"  I  think  I  am  tired,"  she  answered. 

"Think?  You  mean  you  know  you  are."  The  mask  of 
jesting  had  dropped  again.  "  How  much  more  of  this  hor 
rible  place  is  there — I  mean  beyond  here?" 

"  We  are  a  good  deal  more  than  half-way  through  ;  three- 
quarters,  I  think." 

"  Can  we  get  out  at  the  other  end  ?     Is  there  an  outlet  ?" 

"Yes — a  creek.     It  takes  you,  I  believe — I  have   never 


EAST  ANGELS.  477 

been  so  far  as  that — to  Eustis  Landing,  a  pier  on  the  St. 
John's  beyond  ours." 

"  If  we  try  to  go  back  we  shall  have  to  go  through  that 
damnable  aisle  of  miasma  again." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  faint  this  time,"  she  said,  humbly. 

"  You  don't  know  whether  you  would  or  not ;  I  can't 
take  any  risks." 

He  spoke  with  bluntness.  She  sat  looking  at  him ;  her 
eyes  had  a  pathetic  expression,  her  womanish  fears  and  her 
fatigue  had  relaxed  her  usual  guard. 

"You  think  I'm  rough.  Let  me  be  rough  while  I  can, 
Margaret !" 

He  sent  the  boat  forward  towards  the  outlet,  not  back 
through  the  aisle  of  flowers.  "  We'll  go  on,"  he  said. 

After  a  while  she  called  her  husband's  name  again. 

"  What's  the  use  of  doing  that  ?"  he  asked.    "  He  isn't  here." 

"Oh,  but  I  am  sure  he  is.     Where  else  could  he  be?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ? — WThere  he  was  for  eight  years, 
perhaps." 

Presently  they  came  to  a  species  of  canebrake,  very  dense 
and  high ;  there  was  no  green  in  sight,  only  the  canes.  The 
channel  wound  tortuously  through  the  rattling  mass,  the 
slight  motion  of  the  water  made  by  the  canoe  caused  the 
canes  to  rattle. 

"  Keep  watch,  please,"  he  said  ;  "  it's  not  so  wet  here.  It 
wouldn't  be  amusing  to  set  such  a  straw-stack  on  fire." 

While  they  were  making  their  way  through  this  labyrinth, 
there  came  a  crash  of  thunder. 

"  The  storm  at  last,  and  we  haven't  heard  the  least  sound 
of  the  tornado  that  came  before  it !  That  shows  what  a 
place  this  is,"  he  said.  "  We  might  as  well  be  in  the  heart 
of  a  mountain.  Well,  even  if  we  do  suffocate,  at  least  we're 
safe  from  falling  trees ;  if  the  lightning  has  struck  one,  it 
can't  come  down,  wedged  in  as  it  is  in  that  great  tight  roof 
overhead." 

There  came  another  crash.  "  I  believe  it  grows  hotter 
and  hotter,"  he  went  on,  throwing  down  his  hat.  "I  am 
beginning  to  feel  a  little  queer  myself ;  I  have  to  tell  you, 
you  know,  in  order  that  you  may  be  able  to  act  with — with 
discrimination,  as  Dr.  Kirby  would  say." 


478  EAST  ANGELS. 

She  had  turned  quickly.     "  Do  you  feel  faint  ?" 

"Faint?"  he  answered,  scoffingly.  "Never  in  the  world. 
Am  I  a  woman  ?  I  feel  perfectly  well,  and  strong  as  an  ox, 
only — I  see  double." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  air  of  the  swamp." 

She  took  off  the  black  lace  scarf  she  was  wearing,  dipped 
it  into  the  stream,  and  told  him  to  bind  it  round  his  fore 
head  above  the  eyes. 

"  Nonsense !"  he  said,  impatiently. 

But  she  moved  towards  him,  and  kneeling  on  the  canoe's 
bottom,  bound  the  lace  tightly  round  his  forehead  herself, 
fastening  it  with  her  little  gold  pin. 

"  I  must  look  like  a  Turk,"  he  exclaimed  when  she  released 
him. 

But  the  wet  bandage  cleared  his  vision ;  he  could  see 
plainly  again. 

After  another  five  minutes,  however,  back  came  the  blur. 
"Shall  we  ever  get  out  of  this  accursed  hole?"  he  cried, 
pressing  his  hands  on  his  eyes. 

"  I  can  paddle  a  little;  let  me  take  the  oar." 

But  he  dashed  more  water  on  his  head,  and  pushed  her 
hands  away.  "  Women  never  know  !  It's  much  better  for 
me  to  keep  on.  But  you  must  direct  me, — say  *  one  stroke 
on  the  right,'  '  two  on  the  left,'  and  so  on." 

"  Oh,  why  "did  I  ever  bring  you  in  here  ?"  she  moaned, 
giving  no  directions  at  all,  but  looking  at  his  contracted 
eyes  with  the  tears  welling  in  her  own. 

"  See  here,  Margaret, — I  really  don't  know  what  would 
happen  if  I  should  put  this  oar  down  and — and  let  you  pity 
me !  I  can  tell  you  once.  Now  be  warned."  He  spoke 
with  roughness. 

Her  tears  were  arrested.  "Two  strokes  on  the  right," 
she  said,  quickly. 

They  went  on  their  course  again,  he  putting  his  oar  into 
the  water  with  a  peculiar  deliberation,  as  though  he  were 
taking  great  care  not  to  disturb  its  smoothness;  but  this 
was  because  he  was  guiding  himself  by  sense  of  touch.  It 
was  not  that  all  was  dark  before  him,  that  he  saw  nothing, 
it  would  have  been  much  easier  if  there  had  been  nothing  to 
see  ;  but  whether  his  eyes  were  open  or  closed  he  looked 


EAST  ANGELS.  479 

constantly  and  in  spite  of  himself  into  a  broad  circular  space 
of  vivid  scarlet,  in  the  centre  of  which  a  smaller  and  revolv 
ing  disk  of  colors  like  those  of  peacocks'  feathers,  continually 
dilating  and  contracting,  weaned  and  bewildered  him.  In 
spite  of  this  visual  confusion  he  kept  on. 

Their  progress  was  slow.  "  I  think  I'll  stop  for  a  while," 
he  said,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed.  They  were 
still  among  the  rattling  canes,  his  voice  had  a  drowsy  tone. 

"  Oh,  don't  stop  now  ;  we're  nearly  out." 

But  he  had  stopped. 

"  If  I  had  had  any  idea  you  would  tire  so  soon —  Of 
course  if  I  must  take  the  oar — and  blister  my  hands — " 

"  Keep  back  in  your  place,"  he  cried,  angrily,  as  she  made 
a  movement  as  though  she  were  coming  to  take  the  paddle 
from  him. 

She  went  on  giving  the  directions,  she  could  scarcely  keep 
the  tremor  from  her  voice,  but  she  did  keep  it.  When  she 
looked  at  his  closed  eyes,  and  saw  the  effort  he  was  making 
— every  time  he  lifted  his  arms  it  was  like  lifting  a  gigantic 
weight,  his  fancy  made  it  so — she  longed  to  take  the  oar 
from  him  and  let  him  rest.  But  she  did  not  dare  to,  he 
must  not  sleep  now.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  an 
edge  of  his  coat  furtively,  where  he  would  not  perceive  it ; 
the  gentle  little  touch  seemed  to  give  her  courage  to  say,  in 
a  tone  of  sarcastic  compassion,  "  If,  after  all,  you  are  going  to 
faint,  though  you  assured  me — " 

"Faint!"  said  Winthrop, — "what  are  you  talking  about?" 
lie  straightened  himself  and  threw  back  his  head.  Her  taunt 
had  answered  its  purpose,  it  had  made  him  angry  and  in  his 
anger  he  sent  the  boat  forward  with  more  force. 

Another  anxious  ten  minutes,  and  then,  "  We're  out !"  she 
said,  as  she  saw  wide  water  in  front.  "  Now  it  will  be  cool 
er."  The  channel  broadened,  they  left  the  rattling  canes  be 
hind. 

Water  was  coming  slowly  down  the  trees,  not  in  drops  but 
in  dark  streaks ;  this  was  rain  that  had  made  its  way  through 
the  roof  of  foliage,  scanty  fringe  of  the  immense  torrent  now 
falling  upon  the  drenched  ground  outside. 

"I  shall  go  through  to  that  place  you  spoke  of  —  Eustis 
Landing,  wasn't  it?"  said  Winthrop. 


480  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Oh,  you  are  better !" 

Her  relief  showed  itself  in  these  words.  But  much  more 
in  her  face ;  its  strained  tension  gave  way,  her  tears  fell.  She 
dried  them  in  silence. 

"  Because  I  can  speak  of  something  outside  of  this  infer 
nal  bog  ?  Yes,  I  shall  get  you  safely  through  now.  And  my 
self  also.  But — it  hasn't  been  easy  !" 

"  Oh,  I  know  that." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  no,  you  don't ;  not  the  half." 
^  In  a  moment  or  two  more  he  announced  that  he  was  be 
ginning  to  see  "  something  besides  fireworks."    She  still  con 
tinued,  however,  to  direct  him. 

The  swamp  had  been  growing  more  open. '  At  length  the 
channel  brought  them  to  a  spectral  lake,  with  a  few  dead 
trees  in  it  here  and  there  hung  with  white  moss.  "  I  re 
member  this  place,  the  creek  opens  out  just  opposite.  At 
last  it's  over !" 

"  And  at  last  I  can  see.  But  I  must  take  this  thing  off; 
it  binds  me."  And  he  unloosed  and  threw  off  her  lace 
scarf. 

They  found  the  creek  and  entered.  "  It  seems  strange  to 
see  solid  ground  again,  doesn't  it?"  he  said. 

"  Then  you  can  see  it  ?" 

"  As  well  as  ever." 

The  creek  brought  them  to  a  waste  that  was  open  to  the 
sky. 

"  Now  we  can  breathe,"  he  said ;  "  I  feel  as  though  I  should 
never  want  to  be  under  a  tree  branch  again  !" 

It  was  not  very  dark;  there  was  a  moon  somewhere  .be 
hind  the  gray  clouds  that  closely  covered  the  sky.  The 
great  storm  had  gone  westward,  carrying  with  it  the  tornado 
and  the  rain,  and  now  a  cool,  moderate,  New-England-feeling 
wind  was  beginning  to  blow. 

Winthrop  glanced  back.  The  great  trees  of  the  Monn- 
Inngs  loomed  up  in  a  long  dark  line  against  the  sky;  from 
the  low  level  of  the  boat  in  the  flat  waste  they  looked  like  a 
line  of  mountains. 

"  All  the  same,  you  know,"  he  said,  contradictorily,  "  it  was 
very  beautiful  in  there." 

The  creek  was  wide ;  he  went  on  rapidly.     He  was  quite 


EAST  ANGELS.  481 

himself  again.     "You  look  fearfully  worn,"  he  said,  after  a 
while. 

"  Must  we  have  all  these  torches  now  ?"  She  spoke  with 
irritation,  she  could  not  get  away  from  their  light. 

"  Not  if  you  object  to  them."  lie  extinguished  all  but 
one.  "Now  put  on  some  of  those  wraps;  it's  cold." 

"  I  do  not  need  them." 

"Don't  be  childish."  (There  was  no  doubt  but  that  he 
was  himself  again.)  "  Here,  let  me  help  you  on  with  this 
cloak." 

She  submitted. 

It  took  them  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  reach  the  land 
ing. 

"  This  is  it,  I  presume,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  the  dim  out 
lines  of  two  white  houses  at  a  little  distance  on  the  low 
shore.  "  I  will  knock  them  up,  and  get  some  sort  of  a  place 
where  you  can  rest." 

"  If  there  is  any  one  to  row,  I  should  much  rather  go  di 
rectly  home." 

"Always  unreasonable.  Give  me  your  hands."  He  leaned 
forward  and  took  them.  "  Cold  as  ice, — I  thought  so.  You 
must  come  up  to  the  house  and  go  to  bed." 

"  I  could  not  sleep.  Let  me  go  home ;  it  is  the  only  place 
for  me." 

He  still  held  her  hands.     "Very  well,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  they  have  found  Lanse,"  she  went  on. 

"  Old  Dinah  and  Rose  ?     Very  likely." 

In  a  few  minutes  he  returned,  followed  by  two  negroes, 
one  of  whom  carried  a  lantern.  They  got  out  their  own 
boat.  Winthrop  helped  Margaret  into  it,  and  took  his  place 
beside  her ;  their  canoe  was  taken  in  tow.  With  strong  reg 
ular  strokes  the  men  rowed  down  the  creek,  and  out  on  the 
broad  St.  John's. 

When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house  on  the  point  it  was 
gleaming  with  light ;  Margaret  gave  an  exclamation. 

Dismissing  the  men,  Winthrop  went  up  the  path  after  her. 
"  I  am  sure  he  has  come,"  she  said,  hurrying  on. 

"Who?  Lanse?  Oh  no,  it's  those  old  goblins  of  yours 
who  have  illuminated  in  this  way ;  it's  their  idea  of  keeping 
watch  for  you." 

31 


482  EAST  ANGELS. 

The  doors  had  been  left  unfastened,  they  entered.  Inside, 
everything  was  as  brilliant  as  though  the  house  had  been 
made  ready  for  a  ball.  But  there  was  not  a  sound,  no  one 
stirred.  They  went  through  to  the  kitchen  ;  and  there,  each 
on  her  knees  before  a  wooden  chair,  with  her  head  resting 
upon  it  on  her  folded  arms,  appeared  the  little  Africans, 
sound  asleep ;  the  soles  of  their  shoes,  turned  up  behind 
them,  seemed  almost  as  long  as  they  were. 

Winthrop  roused  them.  "  Here,"  he  said ;  "  we're  back. 
Make  some  coffee  for  your  mistress  as  quickly  as  you  can  ; 
and  you,  Rose,  light  a  fire  in  the  sitting-room." 

The  queer  little  old  women  ran  about  like  frightened  hens. 
They  tumbled  over  each  other,  and  let  everything  drop. 
Winthrop  stood  over  them  sternly,  he  took  the  pitch-pine 
from  the  distracted  Rose  and  lighted  the  fire  himself.  "  Now 
go  and  put  out  all  those  lights,"  he  said ;  "  and  bring  in  the 
coffee  the  moment  it's  ready." 

He  had  made  Margaret  sit  down  in  a  low  easy-chair,  still 
wrapped  in  her  cloak,  and  had  placed  a  footstool  for  her  feet; 
the  fire  danced  and  sparkled,  she  sat  with  her  head  thrown 
back,  her  eyes  closed. 

"  Are  you  warmer  ?"  he  asked.  "  You  were  chilled  through 
all  the  way  down  the  river ;  every  now  and  then  I  could  feel 
you  shiver." 

"  It  was  more  fatigue  than  cold."  His  voice  had  roused 
her,  she  sat  up.  "  Oh,  I  ought  to  be  doing  something — try 
ing — " 

"  You  can  do  no  more  now ;  you  must  have  some  coffee, 
and  then  you  must  go  to  bed.  But,  in  the  mean  while,  I 
will  do  everything  possible." 

"But  you  don't  believe — I  don't  know  what  you  believe !" 
She  rose. 

He  put  her  back  in  her  chair.  "  I  will  believe  nothing  if 
you  will  go  and  rest — I  mean  my  beliefs  shall  not  interfere 
with  my  actions ;  I  will  simply  do  everything  I  can — all  I 
should  do  if  I  were  sure  he  was  lost,  somewhere  about  here." 

She  remained  where  he  had  placed  her.  After  a  while  she 
said, "  I  was  so  certain  he  was  in  the  swamp !"  Her  tired 
eyes,  beginning  to  glisten  a  little  with  tears,  had  a  childlike 
look  as  she  raised  them  to  his. 


EAST  AXGELS.  483 

Old  Rose  now  came  hurrying  in  with  the  coffee,  its  fra 
grant  aroma  filled  the  room.  Winthrop  poured  it  out  him 
self,  and  made  Margaret  swallow  it,  spoonful  by  spoonful, 
until  the  cup  was  empty. 

"  You  have  a  little  color  now,"  he  said. 

She  put  the  cup  down,  and  rose. 

"  You're  going?  Yes,  go  \  go  to  bed,  and  sleep  as  long  as 
you  can,  it  must  be  near  dawn.  I  will  meet  you  here  for  a 
late  breakfast  at  eleven." 

She  still  stood  there.     "  But  will  you — will  you  really — " 

"  Haven't  I  given  you  my  word  ?"  he  said.  "  Are  you  afraid 
that  I  shall  not  be  tender  enough  to  him  ?  Don't  you  com 
prehend  that  no  matter  how  much  I  may  hate  him  myself, 
his  being  your  husband  protects  him  perfectly,  because,  so 
long  as  you  persist  in  continuing  so  subservient,  he  could 
visit  anything  else  upon  you?" 

She  went  out  without  reply. 

He  sank  into  the  chair  she  had  left  vacant  to  rest  for  a 
moment  or  two  ;  he  was  desperately  tired. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  room  at  eleven,  she  was  al 
ready  there.  It  was  a  dark  day,  with  the  same  New-Eng 
land-feeling  wind  blowing  over  river  and  land ;  there  had 
been  spurts  of  rain,  and  he  was  wet.  "  Why  have  you  no 
fire?"  he  asked. 

"  It  did  not  seem  cold  enough." 

"  It's  not  cold,  but  it's  dreary.  I  don't  believe  you  have 
slept  at  all?"  he  continued,  looking  at  her.  Opening  the 
door,  he  called  Rose,  and  told  her  to  light  the  fire.  When 
the  old  woman  had  finished  her  task — it  was  but  a  touch, 
and  again  the  magic  wood  was  filling  the  room  with  its  gay 
light  and  faint  sweet  odor  of  the  pine — he  repeated  his  ques 
tion.  "  I  don't  believe  you  have  slept  at  all  ?" 

"How  could  I  sleep!" 

He  sat  down  before  the  fire.  "  You  are  wet.  And  you 
must  be  very  tired,"  she  went  on.  J,( 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  thought  of  it — I  like  sympathy. 
Yes,  I  am  tired ;  but  the  room  is  cheery  now.  Let  us  break 
fast  in  here?" 

"You  have  found  no  trace?"  Her  nervousness  showed 
itself  in  her  tone. 


484  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  No." 

She  went  to  the  door,  and  gave  Rose  an  order.  Then  she 
closed  it,  and  walked  first  to  one  window  ;  then  to  another. 

"  Do  come  and  sit  down.    You  wander  about  like  a  ghost." 

"I  will  step  softly."  She  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  with  her  light,  rather  long-paced  step.  "  You  are  not 
afraid,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  No,  I  am  not  afraid ;  if  he  were  wrecked  in  mid-ocean, 
he  would  make  the  whales  cook  his  dinner  for  him,  and  see 
to  it,  too,  that  it  was  a  good  one." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  in  that  tone ;  don't  jest  about  him  when 
we  cannot  tell —  Here  we  are  safe  at  home,  safe  and  com 
fortable,  when  perhaps  he — "  she  stopped. 

"You  are  haunted  by  the  most  useless  terrors.  'Safe,' 
are  we  ?  How  *  safe '  were  we  last  night,  for  his  sake  too,  in 
that  deadly  swamp  ? — how  safe  were  you  ?  And  '  comforta 
ble  ' — I  sitting  here  wet  and  exhausted,  and  you  walking  up 
and  down,  white  as  a  sheet,  eating  your  heart  out  with  anxi 
ety  !  '  And  home,'  did  you  say  ?  I  like  that !  Pretty  place 
it  was  to  bring  you  to — hideous  barrack  miles  from  every 
living  thing.  Of  course  you've  made  it  better,  you  would 
make  a  cave  better;  he  knew  you  would  do  it  when  he 
brought  you  here !" 

He  changed  his  bitter  tone  into  a  laugh,  "  Instead  of  abus 
ing  him,  I  ought  rather  to  admire  him — admire  him  for  his 
success — he  has  always  done  so  entirely  as  he  pleased !  If 
one  wishes  to  be  virtuous  or  heroic,  I  don't  know  that  it  is 
the  best  way ;  but  if  one  wishes  simply  to  be  comfortable,  it 
most  certainly  is.  You  can't  philosophize?"  he  went  on, 
turning  his  head  to  look  at  her  as  she  continued  her  walk. 

"  No,  no.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  have 
done?" 

"I  have  three  parties  out;  one  has  gone  up  the  shore,  and 
one  down  ;  the  third  is  across  the  river." 

"  You  are  very  good.  For  I  know  you  don't  believe  he  is 
here." 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"  But  where,  then,  can  he  be  ?" 

"  You  have  asked  me  that  before.  This  time  I  will  an 
swer  that  he  is  probably  where  he  intended  to  be  when  he 


EAST  ANGELS.  485 

left  here  early  yesterday  morning— after  ridding  himself  of 
Eliot  and  Dodd." 

"  You  think  he  planned  it.  But  why  should  he  have  been 
so  secret  about  it  ?  No  one  could  have  prevented  him  from 
taking  a  journey  if  he  wished  to  take  one." 

"  You  would  have  prevented  it ;  you  wouldn't  have  thought 
him  strong  enough." 

"That  would  not  have  deterred  him." 
"  You're  right,  it  wouldn't.     Probably  he  didn't  care  even 
to  explain  that  he  did  not  intend  to  be  deterred,  Lanse  was 
never  fond  of  explanations." 
"  I  am  not  at  all  convinced." 

"I  didn't  expect  to  convince  you.  You  asked  me,  and  I 
had  to  say  something." 

After  breakfast — she  could  eat  nothing — he  said,      L  have 
sent  for  a  little  steamer;  it  is  to  take  me  to  all  the  landings 
within  ten  miles  of  here.     I  shall  not  be  back  until  late, 
probably  ;  don't  sit  up."     He  left  the  room. 
Fifteen  minutes  later,  he  appeared  again. 
"  I  was  waiting  for  the  steamer  down  by  the  water,  when 
I  saw  the  boy  who  brings  the  mail  going  away ;  you  have 
had  a  letter  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.     Her  hands  were  empty. 
"  You  heard  me  coming  and  concealed  it." 
"I  have  nothing  to  conceal."     She  rose.     "Yes,  I  have 
had  a  letter,  Lanse  is  on  his  way  to  New  York ;  he  is  taking 
a  journey — for  a  change." 

"  You  will  let  me  see  the  letter  ?" 

"  Impossible."  She  was  trembling  a  little,  but  she  faced 
him  inflexibly. 

"  Margaret,  I  beg  you  to  let  me  see  it.  Show  me  that 
you  trust  me ;  you  seem  never  to  do  that — yet  I  deserve — 
Tell  me,  then,  of  your  own  accord,  what  he  says.  If  he 
has  left  you  again,  who  should  help  you,  care  for  you,  if 
not  I  ?" 

"  You  last  of  all !"  She  walked  away.  "  Of  course  now 
that  I  know,  I  am  no  longer  anxious, — I  was  foolish  to  be  so 
anxious.  We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  all  you 
have  done." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  take  that  tone,  let  me  tell  you  that  I 


486  EAST  ANGELS. 

too  have  had  a  letter — Primus  has  just  brought  it  from  East 
Angels — it  was  sent  there." 

She  glanced  at  him  over  her  shoulder  with  eyes  that  look 
ed  full  of  fear — a  fear  which  he  did  not  stop  to  analyze. 

"  It  is  possible  that  Lanse  has  written  to  me  even  more 
plainly  than  he  has  to  you,"  he  went  on.  "  At  any  rate,  he 
tells  me  that  he  is  going  to  Italy — it  is  the  old  affair  revived 
— and  that  he  has  no  present  intention  of  returning.  What 
he  has  said  in  his  letter  to  you,  of  course  I  don't  know ;  but 
it  can  hardly  be  the  whole,  because  he  asks  me  to  *  break '  it 
to  you.  '  Break '  it, — he  has  chosen  his  messenger  well !" 

"  O  my  God,"  said  Margaret  Harold. 

Her  words  were  a  prayer.  She  sank  down  on  her  knees 
beside  the  sofa,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  clasped  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

EVERT  WINTHROP  had  felt  that  her  words  were  a  prayer, 
that  she  was  praying  still. 

Against  what  especial  danger  she  was  thus  invoking  aid, 
he  did  not  know ;  before  he  could  speak,  old  Rose  had 
opened  the  door,  and  Margaret,  springing  up,  was  going  for 
ward  to  meet  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  who  with  his  usual  equable 
expression  entered,  hat  in  hand,  to  pay  Mrs.  Harold  a  short 
visit;  he  had  been  obliged  to  come  over  to  the  river  that 
morning  on  business,  and  had  thought  that  he  would  take  the 
occasion  for  a  little  social  pleasure  as  well. 

Margaret  put  out  her  hands  eagerly ;  "  It's  wonderful — 
your  coming  now  !  You  will  stay  with  me,  won't  you  ? — I 
am  in  great  trouble." 

Mr.  Moore  took  her  hand ;  all  the  goodness  of  his  nature 
came  into  his  long  narrow  face,  making  it  lovely  in  its  sym 
pathy  as  he  heard  her  appeal.  She  was  clinging  to  him — 
she  had  put  her  other  hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  will  stay  ?" 
she  repeated  urgently. 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  most  certainly  I  will  stay." 

Upon  hearing  this,  she  made  an  effort  to  recover  herself, 
to  speak  more  coherently.  "  I  shall  need  your  advice — there 


EAST  ANGELS.  487 

are  so  many  things  I  must  decide  about.  Mr.  Winthrop  will 
tell  you — but  why  should  I  leave  it  to  him?  I  will  tell  you 
myself.  My  husband  has  gone  north,  he  is  going  abroad 
again.  You  will  understand — it  was  so  sudden.  I  did  not 
know — "  She  made  another  effort  to  steady  her  voice.  "  If 
you  will  stay  with  me  for  a  day  or  two,  I  will  send  over  to 
Gracias  for  anything  you  may  need." 

"  I  will  stay  gladly,  Mrs.  Harold." 

"  Oh,  you  are  good !  But  I  always  knew  you  were.  And 
now  for  a  few  minutes — if  you  will  excuse  me — I  have  only 
just  heard  it — I  will  come  back  soon."  And  with  swift  step 
she  hastened  from  the  room. 

Mr.  Moore,  his  face  full  of  sympathy,  turned  to  Winthrop. 

But  Evert  Winthrop's  expression  showed  only  anger ;  he 
walked  off,  with  his  back  turned,  and  made  no  reply. 

**  Is  it  true,  then  ?"  said  Mr.  Moore,  infinite  regret  in  his 
mild  tones. 

Winthrop  was  standing  at  the  window,  he  bit  his  lips  with 
impatience;  he  was  in  no  mood  for  what  he  would  have 
called  "  the  usual  platitudes,"  and  especially  platitudes  about 
Lansing  Harold. 

It  could  not  be  denied  that  Mr.  Moore's  conversation  often 
contained  sentences  that  were  very  usual. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  return,"  pursued  the  clergyman,  hope 
fully.  "  Influences  might  be  brought  to  bear.  We  may  be 
able  to  reach  him  ?"  And  again  he  looked  at  Winthrop  in 
quiringly. 

But  Winthrop  had  now  forgotten  his  presence,  at  this 
very  moment  he  was  leaving  the  room ;  he  was  determined 
to  see  Margaret  and  speak  to  her,  if  but  for  a  second.  He 
found  Rose,  and  sent  her  with  a  message;  he  himself  fol 
lowed  the  old  woman  up  the  stairs,  and  stood  waiting  in  the 
upper  hall  as  she  knocked  at  Margaret's  closed  door. 

But  the  door  did  not  open  ;  in  answer  to  Rose's  message 
delivered  shrilly  outside  the  door,  Margaret  replied  from 
within,  "  I  can  see  no  one  at  present." 

Rose  came  back.  "  She  can't  see  nobody  nohow  jess  dis 
minute,  marse,"  she  answered,  in  an  apologetic  tone.  Then, 
imaginatively,  "  Spec  she's  tired." 

"  Go  back  and  tell  her  that  I'm  waiting  here — in  the  hall, 


488  EAST  ANGELS. 

and  that  I  will  keep  her  but  a  moment.  There  is  something 
important  I  must  say." 

Rose  returned  to  the  door.  But  the  answer  was  the  same. 
"  She  done  got  mighty  tired,  marse,  sho,"  said  the  old  serv 
ant,  again  trying  to  clothe  the  refusal  in  polite  terms,  though 
unable  to  think  of  a  new  apology. 

"  Her  door  is  locked,  I  suppose  ?"  Winthrop  asked.  Then 
he  felt  that  this  was  going  too  far ;  he  turned  and  went  down 
the  stairs,  but  with  a  momentary  revival  in  his  breast  all  the 
same  of  the  old  despotic  feeling,  the  masculine  feeling,  that 
a  woman  should  not  be  allowed  to  dictate  to  a  man  what  he 
should  say  or  not  say,  do  or  not  do ;  in  refusing  to  see  him 
even  for  one  moment,  Margaret  was  dictating. 

He  walked  down  the  lower  hall,  and  then  back  again. 
Happening  to  glance  up,  he  saw  that  old  Rose  was  still 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs;  she  dropped  one  of  her 
straight  courtesies  as  he  looked  up — a  quick  ducking  down 
of  her  narrow  skirt ;  she  was  much  disturbed  by  the  direct 
refusal  which  she  had  had  to  give  him. 

"  I  can't  stay  here,  if  they  are  going  to  watch  me,"  he 
thought,  impatiently.  He  turned  and  re-entered  the  sitting- 
room. 

Mr.  Moore  was  putting  more  wood  on  the  fire.  His  mind 
was  full  of  Margaret  and  her  troubles ;  but  the  fire  certainly 
needed  replenishing,  it  would  do  no  one  any  good  to  come 
back  to  a  cold  room,  Mrs.  Harold  least  of  all ;  Winthrop 
therefore  found  him  engaged  with  the  coals. 

Mr.  Moore  went  on  with  his  engineering  feats.  He  cher 
ished  no  resentment  because  Winthrop  had  left  him  so  sud 
denly.  Still,  he  had  observed  that  such  sudden  exits  were 
sometimes  an  indication  of  temper ;  in  such  cases  there  was 
nothing  better  than  an  unnoticing,  and  if  possible  an  occu 
pied,  silence ;  so  he  went  on  with  his  fire. 

"  It's  most  unfortunate  that  there's  no  one  who  has  any 
real  authority  over  her,"  Winthrop  began,  still  smarting  un 
der  the  refusal.  Margaret  had  chosen  the  clergyman  as  her 
counsellor ;  it  would  be  as  well,  then,  to  indicate  to  that 
gentleman  what  course  should  be  pursued. 

"You  have  some  plan  to  recommend  to  her?"  said  Mr. 
Moore,  putting  the  tongs  away  and  seating  himself.  He 


EAST  ANGELS.  489 

held  out  his  long  hands  as  if  to  warm  them  a  little  by  the 
flame,  and  looked  at  Winthrop  inquiringly. 

"  No,  I  don't  know  that  I  have.  But  she  is  sure  to  be 
obstinate  in  any  case."  He  too  sat  down,  and  stared  moodi 
ly  at  the  flame. 

"  You  think  it  will  be  a  great  grief  to  her,"  observed  the 
clergyman,  after  a  while.  "  No  doubt — no  doubt." 

"  No  grief  at  all,  as  far  as  that  goes.  Lanse  has  always 
treated  her  abominably."  He  paused.  Then  continued,  as 
if  there  were  now  good  reasons  for  telling  the  whole  tale. 
"Before  he  had  been  married  a  year,  he  left  her,  she  did  not 
leave  him,  as  my  aunt  supposes ;  he  went  abroad,  and  would 
not  allow  her  to  come  to  him.  There  had  never  been  the 
least  fault  on  her  side ;  there  hasn't  been  up  to  this  day." 

"  I  cannot  understand  such  fickleness,  such  dark  tendencies 
towards  change,"  said  Mr.  Moore,  in  rebuking  wonder. 

"As  far  as  regards  change,  I  ought  to  say,  perhaps,  that 
there  hasn't  been  much  of  that,"  Winthrop  answered.  "  What 
took  him  abroad  was  an  old  interest — something  he  had  felt 
long  before  his  marriage,  and  felt  strongly  ;  he  has  never 
changed  in  that  respect." 

"Do  you  allude  —  is  it  possible  that  you  are  alluding 
to  an  interest  in  a  person .?"  asked  Mr.  Moore,  in  a  lowered 
tone. 

"  It  certainly  wasn't  a  thing ;  I  hardly  think  you  would  call 
a  beautiful  French  woman  of  rank  that,  would  you?" 

Mr.  Moore  looked  at  him  with  a  stricken  face.  "  A  beau 
tiful  French  woman  of  rank!"  he  murmured. 

"  That's  what  is  taking  him  abroad  now,  this  second  time. 
She  threw  him  over  once,  but  she  has  evidently  called  him 
back ;  in  fact,  he  admits  it  in  his  letter  to  me." 

"  Oh,  sin !  sin !"  said  Middleton  Moore,  with  the  deepest 
sadness  in  his  voice.  He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand  and 
covered  his  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Winthrop.  "  All  the  same,  she 
is  the  only  person  Lanse  has  ever  cared  for ;  for  her  and  her 
alone  he  could  be,  and  would  be  if  he  had  the  chance,  per 
haps,  unselfish ;  I  almost  think  he  could  be  heroic.  But, 
you  see,  he  won't  have  the  chance,  because  there's  the  hus 
band  in  the  bush." 


490  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  wretched  creature  is  a  mar 
ried  woman  ?"  demanded  the  clergyman,  aghast. 

"Oh  yes;  it  was  her  marriage,  her  leaving  him  in  the 
lurch,  that  made  Lanse  himself  marry  in  the  first  place — 
marry  Margaret  Cruger." 

"  This  is  most  horrible.  This  man,  then,  this  Lansing  Har 
old,  is  an  incarnation  of  evil  ?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  is  or  not,"  Winthrop  answered, 
irritably.  "  Yes,  he  is,  I  suppose ;  we  all  are.  Not  yon,  of 
course,"  he  added,  glancing  at  his  companion,  and  realizing 
as  he  did  so  that  here  was  a  man  who  was  an  incarnation  of 
good.  Then  the  opposing  feeling  swept  over  him  again, 
namely,  that  this  man  was  good  simply  because  he  could  not 
be  evil ;  it  was  not  that  he  had  resisted  temptation  so  much 
as  that  he  had  no  capacity  for  being  tempted.  "  An  old 
woman,"  he  thought. 

He  himself  was  very  different  from  that,  he  knew  well 
what  temptation  meant!  A  flush  crossed  his  face.  "Per 
haps  Lanse  can't  help  loving  her,"  he  said,  flinging  it  out 
obstinately. 

"A  man  can  always  help  a  shameful  feeling  of  that  sort," 
the  clergyman  answered,  with  sternness.  He  drew  up  his 
tall  figure,  his  face  took  on  dignity.  "  We  are  not  the  beasts 
that  perish."  .  . 

"  We  may  not  be  altogether  beasts,  and  yet  we  may  not 
be  able  to  help  it,"  Winthrop  answered,  getting  up  and  walk 
ing  across  the  room.  Margaret's  little  work-table  stood  there, 
gay  with  ribbons  and  fringes ;  mechanically  he  fingered  the 
spools  and  bright  wools  it  held. 

"  At  least  we  can  control  its  manifestations,"  replied 
Middleton  Moore,  still  with  a  deep  severity  of  voice  and 
eyes. 

"You  would  like  to  have  all  sinners  of  that  disposition 
(which  doesn't  happen  to  be  yours)  consumed  immediately, 
wouldn't  you  ?  for  fear  of  their  influencing  others,"  said  Win 
throp,  leaving  the  work-table  and  walking  about  the  room. 
"  In  the  days  of  the  burnings,  now,  when  it  was  for  strictly 
wicked  persons  of  that  tendency,  I  suspect  you  would  have 
brought  a  few  fagots  yourself — wouldn't  you  ? — even  if  you 
hadn't  taken  a  turn  at  the  bellows." 


EAST  ANGELS.  491 

Mr.  Moore  turned  and  surveyed  him  in  unfeigned  aston 
ishment. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  younger  man,  "  I  don't 
know  what  I'm  saying.  I'll  go  out  for  a  while,  and  try  the 
fresh  air." 

When  he  came  back  half  an  hour  later,  Margaret  had  re 
turned. 

"  Ah  !  you  have  had  a  walk  ?  The  air  is  probably  pleasant," 
said  the  clergyman,  welcoming  him  kindly.  He  wished  to 
show  that  he  had  forgotten  the  bellows.  "  I  was  on  the 
point  of  saying  to  Mrs.  Harold,  as  you  came  in,  that  in  case 
she  should  be  thinking  of  leaving  this  house,  I  will  hope 
most  warmly  that  she  will  find  it  consistent  with  her  plans 
to  return  to  us  at  Gracias." 

"  I  should  much  rather  stay  here,"  responded  Margaret. 
"  I  could  have  Dinah's  son  Abram  to  sleep  in  the  house,  if 
necessary." 

"  You  could  never  stay  here  alone,  you  ought  not  to  think 
of  it,"  said  Winthrop.  "  We  know  better  than  you  do  about 
that."  He  had  seated  himself  at  some  distance  from  her. 
Mr.  Moore  still  kept  his  place  before  the  fire,  and  Margaret 
was  beside  him ;  she  held  a  little  fan-shaped  screen  in  her 
hand  to  shade  her  face  from  the  glow. 

"  I  am  sure  Mr.  Moore  will  say  that  it  is  safe,"  she  an 
swered. 

"  I  included  him  ;  I  said  *  we,'  "  said  Winthrop,  challeng 
ing1^ 

Mr.  Moore  extended  his  long  legs  with  a  slightly  uneasy 
movement.  "  I  regret  to  say  that  I  fear  Mr.  Winthrop  is 
right ;  it  would  not  be  safe  at  present,  even  with  Abram  in 
the  house.  The  river  is  no  longer  what  it  was  "  (he  refrained 
from  saying  "  your  northern  steamers  have  made  the  change ;") 
"  the  people  who  live  in  the  neighborhood  are  respectable,  but 
the  increased  facilities  for  traffic  have  brought  us  dangerous 
characters." 

"  Of  course  you  will  go  back  to  East  Angels,"  Winthrop 
began. 

"  I  think  not.     If  I  cannot  stay  here,  I  shall  go  north." 

"  North  ?     Where  ?" 

"  There  are  plenty  of  places.     There  is  my  grandmother's 


492  EAST  ANGELS, 

old  house  in  the  country,  where  I  lived  when  I  was  a  child ; 
it  is  closed  now,  but  I  could  open  it ;  I  should  like  to  see  the 
old  rooms  once  more."  She  spoke  quietly,  her  manner  was" 
that  she  was  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  clergyman  knew 
everything,  that  Winthrop  had  told  him  all.  She  was  a  de 
serted  wife,  there  was  no  need  for  any  of  them  to  go  through 
the  form  of  covering  that  up. 

"  That  would  be  a  perfectly  crazy  idea,"  began  Winthrop. 
Then  he  stopped. 

"  We  should  be  exceedingly  sorry  to  lose  you,  Mrs.  Harold 
— Penelope  would  be  exceedingly  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Moore,  in 
his  amiable  voice.  "  I  can  understand  that  it  would  afford 
you  much  pleasure  to  revisit  your  childhood's  home.  But 
East  Angels,  too — after  so  long  a  stay  there,  may  we  not 
hope  that  it  presents  to  you  a  friendly  aspect?" 

**  I  prefer  to  go  north,"  Margaret  answered. 

Mr.  Moore  did  not  combat  this  decision  ;  he  did  not,  in 
truth,  know  quite  what  to  advise  just  at  present ;  it  required 
thought.  Here  was  a  woman  who  had  been  cruelly  outraged 
by  the  scandalous,  by  the  incredibly  abandoned  conduct  of 
the  worst  of  husbands.  She  had  no  mother  to  go  to  (the 
clergyman  felt  this  to  be  an  unspeakable  misfortune),  but  she 
was  not  a  child;  they  could  not  dictate  to  her,  she  was  a 
free  agent.  But  women — women  of  refinement — were  gen 
erally  timid  (he  glanced  at  Margaret,  and  decided  that  she 
was  timid  also) ;  she  might  talk  a  little  about  her  house  at 
the  north,  but  probably  it  would  end  in  her  returning  to  East 
Angels  after  all. 

"  If  I  find  that  I  don't  care  for  the  country-house,  the  life 
there,  I  can  go  abroad,"  Margaret  continued.  She  rose  and 
went  out. 

This  was  not  much  like  returning  to  East  Angels ! 

"  Is  she  thinking,  do  you  suppose,  of  going  to  him  ?"  asked 
the  clergyman,  in  a  cautious  voice,  when  the  door  was  closed. 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  is  thinking  of.  She  is  capable  of 
the  most  mistaken  ideas !"  Winthrop  answered. 

"  She  is  possessed  of  a  wonderful  sense  of  duty,  if  she  does 
go ;  I  mean,  in  case  she  is  acquainted  with  the  cause  of  his 
departure  ?" 

"  She  is  acquainted  with  everything." 


EAST  ANGELS.  493 

Margaret  came  back  and  sat  down  again.  "  You  decidedly 
think,  then,  that  I  cannot  stay  here?"  she  said  to  the  clergy 
man. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  stay  so  very  much  ?"  he  asked,  kindly. 

"  Yes,  I  should  much  rather  stay,  much  rather  make  no 
change;  this  is  my  home." 

"How  can  you  talk  in  that  way?"  said  Winthrop.  Ho 
had  risen  again,  and  begun  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room ; 
as  he  spoke,  he  stopped  his  walk  and  stood  before  her. 
"  You  came  here  against  your  will ;  you  disliked  the  place 
intensely ;  you  said  so  of  your  own  accord,  I  heard  you." 

"  I  know  I  have  said  so.  Many  times.  Still,  I  should  like 
to  stay  now." 

"You  cannot.     Even  Mr.  Moore  tells  you  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  clergyman,  conscientiously,  "  I  must  say  it 
though  I  do  not  wish  to ;  the  place  is  unusually  lonely,  it 
stands  quite  by  itself;  it  would  be  unwise  to  remain." 

"  I  must  give  it  up,  I  see,"  Margaret  answered  ;  "I  am  sor 
ry.  But  at  least  I  can  retain  the  house ;  I  should  like  to 
keep  it  open,  too ;  the  servants  could  stay  here,  I  suppose." 

Winthrop  turned  and  looked  at  her,  a  quick  surprised  sus 
picion  in  his  glance. 

"  I  could  do  that,  couldn't  I  ?"  she  repeated,  addressing  Mr. 
Moore. 

Again  the  clergyman  looked  uncomfortable.  He  crossed 
his  legs,  and  extending  the  pendent  foot  a  little  in  its  long, 
thin -soled  boot,  he  looked  at  it  and  moved  it  to  and  fro 
slightly,  as  if  he  had  been  called  upon  to  give  an  opinion 
upon  the  leather.  "  I  fear,"  he  said,  as  the  result  of  his  med 
itation,  "  that  it  might  not  be  altogether  prudent.  The  ne 
groes  have  much  hospitality ;  with  a  large  house  at  their 
command,  and  nobody  near,  I  fear  they  might  be  tempted  to 
invite  their  friends  to  visit  them." 

"  The  place  would  swarm  with  them,"  said  Winthrop. 

"At  any  rate,  I  shall  keep  the  house  even  if  I  close  it,"  said 
Margaret.  "  It  must  be  ready  for  occupancy  at  any  time." 

"Then  you  are  thinking  of  coming  back?"  Winthrop 
asked.  His  face  still  showed  an  angry  mistrust. 

"  I  may  come  back.  At  present,  however,  I  shall  go  north  ; 
and  as  I  prefer  to  go  immediately,  I  shall  set  about  arrang- 


494  EAST  ANGELS. 

ing  the  rooms  here  so  that  I  can  leave  them.  It  will  not 
take  long,  two  days,  or  three  at  most;  it  would  be  a  great 
kindness,  Mr.  Moore,  if  you  would  stay  with  me  until  I  leave 
— by  next  Saturday's  steamer,  probably." 

"I  hardly  think  you  will  be  able  to  accomplish  so  much 
in  so  short  a  time,"  answered  the  clergyman,  a  good  deal  be 
wildered  by  this  display  of  energy.  "To  Mr.  Moore's  idea,  a 
woman  who  had  been  deserted  by  her  husband,  even  though 
that  husband  had  been  proved  to  be  abnormally  vicious, 
could  not  well  be  in  the  mood  for  the  necessary  counting  of 
chairs,  for  the  proper  distribution  of  gum-camphor  among 
carpets  and  curtains,  all  so  important. 

Then,  reading  again  the  deep  trouble  in  Margaret's  face, 
under  all  the  calmness  of  her  manner,  he  dismissed  his  ob 
jections,  and  said,  heartily,  "  In  any  case,  I  will  stay  with  you 
as  long  as  you  wish." 

"  Possibly  one  of  your  difficulties  is  that  I  am  here,"  said 
Winthrop  to  Margaret.  "  You  cannot  expect  me  to  leave 
you  entirely,  as  long  as  you  are  still  in  this  house,  I  am,  after 
all,  your  nearest  relative;  but  of  course  I  could  stay  at  the 
hotel."  He  spoke  with  extreme  coldness. 

Margaret,  however,  did  not  try  to  dissipate  it  by  asking 
him  to  remain. 

He  showed  that  he  felt  this,  for  he  said,  "Perhaps  I  had 
bettter  go  up  at  once  and  see  to  getting  quarters  there." 

She  did  not  answer.  He  walked  about  aimlessly  fora  mo 
ment  or  two,  and  then  left  the  room. 

"  Will  you  go  over  the  house  with  me  now,  Mr.  Moore — I 
mean  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Certainly.  It  would  be  better,  I  think,  to  make  a  list," 
Mr.  Moore  answered,  in  an  interested  voice.  Mr.  Moore  en 
joyed  lists;  to  him  an  index  was  an  exciting  object;  in  de 
vising  catalogues,  or  new  alphabetical  arrangements,  he  had 
sometimes  felt  a  sense  of  pleasure  that  was  almost  dissipa 
tion. 

"You  will  have  three  enemies  to  encounter,"  he  began 
with  much  seriousness.  "They  are,  first,  the  Mildew.  Sec 
ond,  the  Moth.  Third,  the  Damp ;  the  Mouse,  so  destructive 
in  other  climates,  will  trouble  you  little  in  this.  We  shall 
need  red  pepper." 


EAST  ANGELS.  495 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  WEEK  later,  Margaret  was  still  in  the  house  on  the  point, 
she  had  not  been  able  to  complete  as  rapidly  as  she  had 
hoped  the  arrangements  necessary  for  leaving  it  in  safe  con 
dition  behind  her.  This  was  not  owing  to  any  lingering  on 
her  own  part,  or  to  any  hesitation  of  purpose ;  it  was  owing 
simply  to  the  constitutional  inability  of  anybody  in  that  lat 
itude,  black  or  white,  to  work  steadily,  to  be  in  the  least  hur 
ried.  The  poorest  negro  engaged  to  shake  carpets  could  not 
bring  himself,  though  with  the  offer  of  double  wages  before 
him,  to  the  point  of  going  without  a  long  "  res' "  under  the 
trees  after  each  (short)  "  stent."  Mr.  Moore,  with  his  lists, 
made  no  haste — Mr.  Moore  had  never  been  in  a  hurry  in  his 
life. 

But  now  at  last  all  was  completed ;  the  house  was  to  be 
closed  on  the  morrow.  No  one  but  the  clergyman  was  to 
sleep  there  on  this  last  night ;  the  negroes,  generously  paid 
and  rejoicing  in  their  riches,  were  going  to  their  own  homes  ; 
in  the  morning  one  of  them  was  to  return  to  dismantle  Mr. 
Moore's  room,  and  then  the  clergyman  himself  was  to  bar 
the  windows,  lock  the  doors,  and  carry  the  keys  to  the  hotel, 
where  they  were  to  be  kept,  in  accordance  with  Margaret's 
orders.  She  herself  was  to  sleep  at  the  hotel,  in  order  to  be 
in  readiness  to  take  the  sea-going  steamer,  which  would  touch 
at  that  pier  at  an  early  hour  the  next  morning. 

Evert  Winthrop  had  returned  to  East  Angels.  Five  days 
he  had  stayed  at  the  hotel,  coming  down  every  morning  to 
the  house  on  the  point;  not  once  had  he  been  able  to  see 
Margaret  alone.  Mr.  Moore  was  always  with  her,  or  if  by 
rare  chance  he  happened  to  be  absent,  she  was  surrounded 
by  the  chattering  blacks,  who  with  the  jolliest  good-humor 
and  aimless  wandering  errands  to  and  fro,  were  carrying  out, 
or  pretending  to,  the  orders  of  "  Mis'  Horrel." 

Winthrop  chafed  against  this  constant  presence  of  others. 
But  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  speak  of  it,  pride  prevent- 


496  EAST  ANGELS. 

ed  him.  Why  should  he  be  kept  at  a  distance,  and  a  com 
parative  stranger  like  Mr.  Moore  consulted  about  everything  ? 
Mr.  Moore  !  He  looked  on  with  impatience  while  the  clergy 
man  gave  explanations  of  Penelope's  excellent  methods  of 
vanquishing  the  Mildew,  the  Damp,  the  Moth ;  with  impa 
tience  grown  to  contempt  he  heard  him  read  aloud  to  Mar 
garet  and  check  off  carefully  the  various  items  of  his  lists. 
Mr.  Moore  had  even  made  a  list  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
poultry-yard,  though  Margaret  intended  to  present  them  in  a 
body  to  Dinah  and  Rose. 

"  One  brown  hen  spotted  with  white,"  he  read  ;  "  one  yel 
low  hen,  spotted  with  brown.  A  black  hen.  A  duck." 

He  had  never  seemed  to  Winthrop  so  narrow,  so  given  up 
to  little  details,  as  now. 

On  the  fourth  day  Winthrop  (perhaps  having  found  pride, 
in  spite  of  the  dignity  it  carried  with  it,  rather  unfruitful) 
suddenly  resolved  to  overpower  the  dumb  opposition,  make 
himself  master  of  this  ridiculous  situation  —  "ridiculous" 
was  his  own  term  for  it.  Margaret  was  evidently  determined 
not  to  see  him  alone ;  after  their  long  acquaintance,  and  their 
relationship  (he  insisted  a  good  deal  upon  this  rather  uncer 
tain  tie),  she  should  not  be  allowed  to  treat  him  in  that  way ; 
he  would  not  allow  it.  Of  what,  then,  was  she  afraid  ? 

It  came  across  him  strongly  that  he  should  like  to  ask  her 
that  question  face  to  face. 

He  rode  down  to  the  house  on  the  point.  He  found  her 
in  the  sitting-room,  the  blacks  coming  and  going  as  usual. 

"  Go  away,  all  of  you,"  he  said,  authoritatively.  "  Find 
some  work  to  do  in  another  room  for  half  an  hour;  I  wish 
to  speak  to  your  mistress." 

Margaret  looked  up  as  she  heard  this  imperative  com 
mand.  She  did  not  contradict  it,  she  could  not  come  to  an 
open  conflict  with  him  before  her  own  servants.  He  knew 
this. 

Closing  the  door  after  the  negroes,  who,  in  obedience  to 
the  thorough  master's  voice  which  had  fallen  upon  their  ears, 
had  shuffled  hurriedly  out  in  a  body,  Winthrop  came  over  to 
the  writing-table  where  she  was  seated.  She  had  kept  on 
with  her  writing. 

"  You  don't  care  any  more  about  that  list,  about  any  of 


EAST  ANGELS.  497 

these  trifling  things,  than  I  do,"  he  began  ;  "  why  do  you 
pretend  to  care  ?  And  why  do  you  make  it  so  impossible 
for  me  to  speak  to  you?  What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

She  did  not  answer.  And  he  did  not  get  the  satisfaction 
he  had  anticipated  from  his  question,  because  her  face  was 
bent  over  her  paper. 

"  Why  are  you  going  north  2"  he  went  on,  abruptly. 

"  I  need  a  change." 

"  You  cannot  live  all  alone  in  New  York." 

"  I  shall  not  be  in  New  York.  And  I  could  easily  have 
a  companion." 

"Your  best  companion  is  Aunt  Katrina.  I  admit  that 
she  is  selfish ;  but  she  is  growing  old,  and  she  is  ill.  Who, 
after  all,  is  nearer  to  you?" 

"  No  one  is  nearer.     I  have  always  been  alone." 

"  That  is  cynical — and  it  is  not  true."  He  paused.  "  Ev 
ery  one  likes  you." 

"Well  they  may  !  When  have  /  been — permitted  myself 
to  be  disagreeable  ?  When  have  /  ever  failed  to  be  kind  ? 
I  have  always  repressed  myself.  What  is  the  result  ?  I  have 
been  at  everybody's  beck  and  call,  I  have  been  expected  to 
bear  everything  in  silence ;  to  listen,  always  to  listen,  and 
never  to  reply."  She  spoke  with  bitterness,  keeping  on  with 
her  writing  meanwhile. 

"  It  is  perfectly  true — what  you  say,  and  I  think  you  have 
done  too  much  of  it.  Are  you  getting  tired  of  the  role!'1'' 

"  I  am  tired  at  least  of  East  Angels ;  I  cannot  go  back 
there." 

"  You  think  Aunt  Katrina  will  talk  about  Lanse  in  her 
usual  style — about  this  second  going  away  of  his?  I  myself 
will  tell  her  the  whole  story — it  is  time  she  knew  it !  She 
will  talk  about  him  no  more." 

"  It  isn't  that."  She  threw  down  her  pen  and  rose.  "  I 
need  a  complete  change,  I  must  have  it.  But  I  shall  arrange 
it  myself.  The  only  thing  you  can  do  for  me  is  to  leave  me 
free ;  I  should  like  it  if  you  would  go  back  to  East  Angels 
— if  you  would  go  to-day ;  you  only  trouble  me  by  staying 
here,  and  you  trouble  me  greatly." 

"  Margaret,  it's  outrageous  the  way  you  treat  me.  What 
have  I  done  that  I  should  be  thrust  off  in  this  way?  And 

32 


498  EAST  ANGELS. 

it's  a  very  sudden  change,  too;  you  were  not  so  that  night 
in  the  swamp." 

"It's  kind  to  bring  that  up.  I  was  tired  —  nervous;  I 
wasn't  myself — " 

"  You're  yourself  now,  never  fear,"  he  interpolated,  an 
grily. 

—"Will  you  do  what  I  ask?" 

"  You  really  wish  me  to  go  ?"  His  voice  softened.  "You 
don't  want  me  to  see  you  off?  It's  very  little  to  do — see 
you  off." 

"  I  should  be  grateful  if  you  would  go  now." 

"  You  are  throwing  us  overboard  together,  I  see  —  all 
Lanse's  relatives ;  you  think  we  are  all  alike,"  he  commented, 
in  a  savage  tone.  "And  you,  well  rid  of  us,  free,  and  de 
termined  to  do  as  you  please,  are  going  north  alone — you  do 
not  even  say  where  ?" 

"  There  will  be  no  secret  about  that ;  I  will  write.  You 
talk  about  freedom,"  she  said,  breaking  off  suddenly,"  what  do 
you  know  of  slavery  ?  That  is  what  I  have  been  for  years — 
a  slave.  Oh,  to  be  somewhere  !" — and  she  threw  up  her  arms 
with  an  eloquent  gesture  of  longing, — "anywhere  where  I 
can  breathe  and  think  as  I  please — as  I  really  am  !  Do  you 
want  me  to  die  without  ever  having  been  myself — my  real 
self  —  even  for  one  day?  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my 
strength  ;  I  can  endure  no  longer." 

Winthrop  had  been  thrilled  through  by  this  almost  violent 
cry  and  gesture.  Coming  from  Margaret,  they  gave  him  a 
great  surprise.  "  Yes,  I  know,"  he  began  ;  "  it  has  been  a 
hard  life."  Then  he  stopped,  for  he  felt  that  he  had  not 
known,  he  had  not  comprehended ;  he  did  not  fully  com 
prehend  even  now.  "I  am  only  harsh  on  account  of  the 
way  you  treat  me,"  he  said ;  "  it  galls  me  to  be  so  complete 
ly  set  aside." 

"  You  can  help  me  only  by  leaving  me,  I  have  told  you 
that." 

"  But  where  is  the  sense — " 

"  I  cannot  argue.  There  may  be  no  sense,  but  your  pres 
ence  oppresses  me." 

"  You  shall  not  be  troubled  with  it  long."  He  went  tow 
ards  the  door.  But  he  came  back.  "  Give  me  one  reason." 


EAST  ANGELS.  499 

"  I  have  no  reason  ;  it  is  instinct." 

He  still  stood  there. 

She  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  him.  "  If  you  do  not 
leave  me,  I  shall  leave  you,"  she  said, "  I  shall  refuse  to  see 
you  again.  You  are  the  best  judge  of  whether  you  believe 
me  or  not." 

"  Women  are  absurd,"  exclaimed  Winthrop ;  "  they  must  al 
ways  have  vows,  renunciations,  eternal  partings — nothing  less 
contents  them.  Oh,  I  believe  you !  you  would  keep  a  vow  or 
die  for  it,  no  matter  how  utterly  senseless  it  might  be.  Of 
course  I  want  to  see  you  again ;  so  I  will  go  now — that  is, 
for  a  while ;  I  will  go  back  to  East  Angels." 

He  took  her  hand,  though  she  did  not  extend  it.  "  You 
have  been  extremely  unreasonable,"  he  said.  Though  he 
obeyed,  she  should  feel  that  he  had  the  mastery  still. 

He  left  her,  and  rode  back  to  the  hotel.  Mr.  Moore  learned 
a  few  hours  later,  that  he  had  returned  to  East  Angels. 

This  had  happened  three  days  before.  It  was  now  late  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  and  the  house  was  prepared 
for  "  Mis'  Horrel's  "  departure.  Mr.  Moore,  standing  on  the 
low  bank,  waved  his  hand  in  farewell  as  the  boat,  rowed  by 
two  old  negroes,  carried  her  down  the  river. 

The  five  miles  seemed  short.  When  the  men  turned  in 
towards  the  hotel,  twilight  had  fallen,  the  river  had  a  veil  of 
mist.  Margaret's  eyes  rested  vaguely  on  the  shore  ;  sudden 
ly,  in  a  low  voice,  she  said,  "  Stop  !" 

The  men  obeyed.  She  strained  her  eyes  to  see  more  clear 
ly  a  figure  under  the  trees  near  the  landing ;  it  was  a  man, 
dressed  in  gray  clothes,  he  was  walking  up  and  down ;  they 
could  see  him  as  he  moved  to  and  fro,  but  he  could  not  see 
their  low  boat,  pausing  out  there  in  the  fog. 

Margaret  appeared  to  have  satisfied  herself.  "  Row  out 
now  into  the  stream,"  she  said,  briefly. 

And  in  a  few  minutes  the  shore,  left  behind  them,  was  but 
a  dark  line. 

"  I  have  changed  my  mind,  I  shall  not  sleep  at  the  hotel, 
after  all.  You  can  take  me  back  home — to  the  house  on  the 
point.  Then,  to-morrow  morning,  you  can  be  there  again  at 
dawn,  and  bring  me  up  in  time  for  the  steamer ;  it  will  do 
quite  as  well." 


500  EAST  ANGELS. 

The  old  men,  without  comment  either  of  mind  or  tongue, 
patiently  rowed  her  back  down  the  river. 

When  they  reached  the  point,  Margaret,  after  charging 
them  to  be  punctual,  dismissed  them,  and  walked  up  the 
path  alone  towards  the  house.  No  lights  were  visible  any 
where.  There  was  a  young  moon,  and  she  looked  at  her 
watch,  it  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock ;  Mr.  Moore  had  apparent 
ly  gone  to  bed  at  a  very  early  hour. 

The  truth  was  that  during  all  this  visit  of  his  on  the  river 
Mr.  Moore  had  kept  much  later  hours  than  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  keeping  at  home.  At  home  Penelope,  who  believed 
that  he  needed  a  great  deal  of  sleep,  was  in  the  habit  of  say 
ing,  about  ten  o'clock,  "  Now,  Middleton — "  And  Middle- 
ton,  as  Dr.  Kirby  once  expressed  it,  always  "  now'd." 

On  the  present  occasion,  after  partaking  of  the  supper 
which  Dinah  had  prepared  for  him,  he  had  sent  the  old 
woman  to  her  home ;  then,  remembering  that  he  had  a  week 
of  arrears  to  make  up,  he  had  gone  to  his  room,  though  there 
was  still  a  gleam  of  sunset  in  the  west. 

Margaret  understood  what  had  happened,  she  determined 
that  she  would  not  disturb  him ;  probably  it  would  not  be 
difficult  to  find  a  way  into  the  house.  As  she  had  expected, 
among  the  numerous  windows  on  the  ground-floor  she  found 
one  which  she  could  raise  ;  light  and  lithe,  she  easily  effected 
an  entrance,  and  stole  on  tiptoe  to  a  room  up-stairs  in  the 
south  wing,  where  she  knew  there  was  a  lounge  whose  pil 
lows  had  been  left  in  place.  She  had  her  travelling-bag  with 
her,  but  she  did  not  intend  to  undress ;  she  would  take  what 
sleep  she  could  on  the  lounge  until  dawn,  covered  by  her 
travelling  shawl.  But  she  was  more  weary  than  she  knew, 
and  nature  was  kind  that  night  at  least;  very  soon  she  fell 
asleep. 

The  figure  she  had  seen  on  the  shore,  was,  as  she  had 
thought,  that  of  Evert  Winthrop.  He  had  come  back. 

It  might  have  been  that  he  did  not  consider  a  return  to 
the  river  prohibited,  so  long  as  he  did  not  go  down  to  the 
house  on  the  point;  there  was  no  law,  certainly,  against  a 
man's  travelling  where  he  pleased.  He  had  not  been  down  to 
the  house  on  the  point,  he  had  stayed  at  the  hotel  all  day. 
He  had  seen  her  trunks  when  they  arrived,  and  he  knew 


EAST  ANGELS.  501 

from  their  being  there  that  she  mast  be  expecting  to  take 
the  next  morning's  steamer,  northward  bound  ;  was  she  com 
ing  herself  to  the  hotel  to  sleep  ?  After  a  while  he  made  the 
inquiry ;  his  tone  was  careless,  he  asked  at  what  hour  they 
expected  her. 

"  I  will  be  surprised  if  she  is  not  here  by  supper-time," 
was  the  answer  he  received. 

At  sunset  he  went  down  to  the  shore  and  strolled  to  and 
fro.  But  though  he  thus  kept  watch,  he  did  not  see  the 
boat  that  stole  up  in  the  fog,  floated  off-shore  for  a  moment, 
and  then  disappeared. 

That  night,  at  three  o'clock  Middleton  Moore  woke  with 
the  feeling  that  he  had  been  attacked  by  asthma,  and  that 
Penelope  was  trying  to  relieve  him  with  long  smoking  wisps 
of  thick  brown  paper,  her  accustomed  remedy.  Then  con 
sciousness  became  clearer,  and  he  perceived  that  there  was 
no  Penelope  and  no  candle ;  but  that  there  was  smoke.  He 
sprang  up  and  opened  the  door,  there  was  smoke  in  the  hall 
also.  "The  house  is  on  fire,"  was  his  thought;  "how  fort 
unate  that  there  is  no  one  here !"  He  threw  on  his  clothes, 
drew  on  his  boots,  and  seizing  his  coat  and  hat,  ran  down 
the  hall.  His  room  was  on  the  ground-floor,  he  looked  into 
the  other  rooms  as  he  passed  ;  there  was  smoke,  but  no  flame  ; 
yet  he  could  distinctly  perceive  the  odor  of  burning  wood. 
"  It  must  be  up-stairs,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  unlocked 
the  house  door,  and  ran  across  the  lawn  in  order  to  see  the 
upper  story. 

Yes,  there  were  the  flames.  At  present  only  little  tongues, 
small  and  blue,  creeping  along  under  the  cornice ;  they  told 
him  that  the  fire  had  a  strong  hold  within,  since  it  had  made 
its  way  outward  through  the  main  wall.  It  would  be  useless 
for  him  to  attempt  to  fight  it,  with  the  water  at  a  distance 
and  no  one  to  assist.  The  old  mansion  was  three  stories 
high.  "  It  will  go  like  tinder,"  he  thought. 

His  next  idea  was  to  save  for  Margaret  all  he  could ;  jam 
ming  his  clerical  hat  tightly  down  on  his  forehead,  he  began 
to  carry  out  articles  from  the  lower  rooms,  and  pile  them  to 
gether  at  the  end  of  the  lawn.  He  worked  hard  ;  he  ran,  he 
carried,  he  piled  up ;  then  he  ran  again.  He  lifted  and 
dragged  ponderous  weights,  the  perspiration  stood  in  drops 


502  EAST  ANGELS. 

on  his  face.  But  even  then  he  made  a  mental  list  of  the 
articles  he  was  saving  :  "  Six  parlor  chairs.  One  centre  table 
of  mahogany.  A  work-table  with  fringe.  A  secretary  with 
inlaid  top.  A  sofa."  In  the  lower  rooms  the  smoke  was 
blinding  now.  Outside,  the  tongues  of  flame  had  grown  into 
a  broad  yellow  band. 

Presently  the  fire  burst  through  the  roof  in  half  a  dozen 
places,  and,  freed,  rose  with  a  leap  high  in  the  air;  here 
tofore  there  had  been  but  little  noise,  now  there  was  the 
sound  of  crackling  and  burning,  and  the  roar  of  flames 
under  headway;  the  sky  was  tinged  with  the  red  glow, 
the  garden  took  on  a  festal  air,  with  all  its  vines  and  flowers 
lighted  up. 

Mr.  Moore  did  not  stop  to  look  at  this,  nor  to  call  the 
flames  "  grand."  In  the  first  place,  he  did  not  think  them 
grand,  eating  up  as  they  were  a  good  house  and  a  large 
quantity  of  most  excellent  furniture.  In  the  second,  he  had 
not  time  for  adjectives,  he  was  bent  upon  saving  a  certain 
low  bookcase  he  remembered,  which  stood  in  the  upper  hall. 
He  had  always  admired  that  bookcase,  he  had  never  seen 
one  before  that  was  unconnected  with  associations  of  step- 
ladders,  or  an  equally  insecure  stepping  upon  chairs. 

He  jammed  his  hat  hard  down  upon  his  forehead  again 
(he  should  certainly  be  obliged  to  have  a  new  one),  and  ran 
back  into  the  house.  But  the  flames  had  now  reached  the 
lower  hall,  they  had  burned  down  as  well  as  up ;  he  was 
obliged  to  content  himself  with  a  hat-stand  near  the  door. 
As  he  was  dragging  this  out  he  heard  shouts,  and  recognized 
the  voices  as  those  of  negro  women  ;  when  he  had  reached 
the  lawn,  there  they  were,  Dinah  and  Rose  and  four  other 
women  ;  they  had  seen  the  light,  and  had  come  running  from 
their  cabins,  half  a  mile  down  the  shore.  They  were  greatly 
excited  ;  one  young  girl,  black  as  coal,  jumped  up  and  down, 
bounding  high  like  a  ball  each  time;  she  was  unconscious  of 
what  she  was  doing,  her  eyes  were  on  the  roaring  flames,  ev 
ery  now  and  then  she  gave  a  tremendous  yell.  Old  Kose 
and  Dinah  wept  and  bewailed  aloud. 

"  Dar  goes  de  settin'-room  winders — oivf" 

"  Dar  goes  de  up-steers  chimbly — owf" 

Another  of  the  women,  a  thin  old  creature,  clapped  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  503 

hands  incessantly  on  her  legs,  and  shouted,  "De  glory's 
a-comin',  de  glory's  a-comin',  a-comin' !" 

Mr.  Moore  deposited  his  hat-stand  under  a  tree,  and  stand 
ing  still  for  a  moment,  wiped  his  hot  forehead.  He  did  not 
attempt  to  stop  their  shouting,  he  knew  that  it  would  be 
useless ;  he  thought  with  regret  of  that  bookcase. 

And  now  there  came  a  shout  louder,  or  at  least  more 
agonized,  than  any  of  the  others,  and  round  the  corner  of 
the  house  appeared  the  boy  Primus ;  he  ran  towards  them, 
shouting  still,  with  each  step  he  almost  fell — "  She's  dar — 
Mis'  Hoi-rel !" 

He  too  had  seen  the  light,  and,  approaching  the  place 
from  the  south,  he  had  passed,  in  running  towards  the  front, 
the  narrow  high  south  wing ;  here  at  a  window  he  had  seen 
a  face — the  face  of  Margaret  Harold. 

Mr.  Moore  was  gone  at  the  boy's  first  cry.  The  others 
followed. 

The  south  wing  was  not  visible  from  the  front.  Its  third 
story  was  in  flames,  and  the  back  and  sides  of  the  ground- 
floor  had  caught,  but  at  a  second-story  window  (which  she 
had  opened)  they  all  saw  a  face — that  of  Margaret  Harold ; 
the  glare  of  the  main  building  showed  her  features  perfectly. 
They  could  not  have  heard  her,  even  if  she  had  been  able  to 
call  to  them,  the  roar  of  the  fire  was  now  so  loud. 

"  She  cannot  throw  herself  out,  it's  too  high ;  and  we 
have  no  blanket.  There's  a  door  below,  isn't  there  ?  And 
stairs?"  It  was  Mr.  Moore's  voice  that  asked. 

"  Yes,  passon,  yes.     But  it's  all  a-bu'nin' !" 

Mr.  Moore  clasped  his  hands  and  bowed  his  head,  it  did  not 
take  longer  than  a  breath.  Then  he  started  towards  the  wing. 

"  Oh,  passon,  yer  dassent !" 

"  Oh,  passon,  yer  can't  help  her  now,  de  sweet  lady,  it's 
too  late.  Pray  for  her  yere,  passon  ;  she'll  go  right  straight 
up,  she's  wunner  der  Lawd's  own  chillun,  de  dove  !" 

"  Oh,  passon !  de  Lawd  ain't  willin'  fer  two  ter  die." 

The  negro  women  clung  about  him,  but  he  shook  them 
off;  going  hastily  forward,  he  broke  in  the  door  and  disap 
peared.  His  moment's  prayer  had  been  for  his  wife,  in  the 
case  —  which  he  knew  was  probable  —  that  he  should  not 
come  from  that  door  alive. 


504  EAST  ANGELS: 

The  gap  he  had  made  revealed  the  red  fire  within  ;  behind 
the  stairs  the  back  of  the  wing  was  a  glowing  furnace. 

The  negroes  now  all  knelt  down,  they  had  no  hope ;  they 
began  to  sing  their  funeral  hymn. 

The  fire  had  reached  the  second  story ;  Margaret's  face 
Lad  disappeared. 

A  bravery  which  does  not  reason  will  sometimes  conquer 
in  the  teeth  of  reason.  One  chance  existed,  it  was  one  amid 
a  dozen  probabilities  of  a  horrible  death ;  it  lay  in  swiftness, 
and  in  the  courage  to  walk,  without  heeding  burned  feet, 
directly  across  floors  already  in  a  glow. 

Middleton  Moore  crossed  such  floors;  he  went  unshrink 
ingly  up  the  scorching  stairs.  He  found  Margaret  by  sense 
of  touch  in  the  smoke-filled  room  above,  and  tearing  off  his 
coat,  he  lifted  her  as  she  lay  unconscious,  wrapped  her  head 
and  shoulders  in  it,  and  bore  her  swiftly  down  the  burning 
steps,  and  through  the  fiery  hall,  and  so  out  to  the  open  air. 
His  eyebrows,  eyelashes,  and  hair  were  singed,  his  face  was 
blistered ;  brands  and  sparks  had  fallen  like  hail  upon  his 
shoulders  and  arms,  and  scorched  through  to  the  skin ;  his 
boots  were  burned  off,  the  curled  leather  was  dropping  from 
his  burned  feet;  his  breath  was  almost  gone. 

He  gave  Margaret  to  the  women,  and  sank  down  himself 
upon  the  grass ;  he  could  not  see,  he  felt  very  weak ;  some 
thing  was  tightening  in  his  throat.  The  boy  Primus,  with 
great  sobs,  ran  like  a  deer  to  the  well  for  water,  and  bring 
ing  it  back,  held  a  cupful  to  the  lips  of  the  blinded  man. 

Margaret,  though  still  unconscious,  appeared  to  be  unhurt. 
The  skirt  of  her  dress  was  burned  in  several  places.  The 
women  chafed  her  hands,  and  bathed  her  face  with  the  fresh 
water ;  once  she  opened  her  eyes,  but  unconsciousness  came 
over  her  again. 

With  a  crash  the  northern  wing  fell  in. 

"  De  front  '11  go  nex',"  said  Primus.  "  We  mus'  git  'em 
'way  from  dish  yer." 

The  women  lifted  Margaret  tenderly,  and  bore  her  to  the 
end  of  the  lawn.  Mr.  Moore  rose  on  his  burned  feet,  and, 
leaning  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  slowly  made  his  way  thither 
also ;  their  forlorn  little  group,  assembled  near  the  piled-up 
furniture,  was  brightly  illuminated  by  the  flame. 


EAST  ANGELS.  505 

Presently  the  front  fell  in.  And  now,  as  the  roar  was 
less  fierce,  they  could  hear  the  gallop  of  a  horse,  in  another 
minute  Evert  Winthrop  was  among  them.  He  saw  only 
Margaret,  he  knelt  by  her  side  and  called  her  name. 

"  l)e  passon  done  it,"  said  Primus, — "  de  passon  !  He  jess 
walk  right  straight  inter  de  bu'nin',  roarin'  flarneses  1  En 
brung  her  out." 

Mr.  Moore  had  not  seen  Winthrop,  he  could  see  nothing 
now.  He  seemed  besides,  a  little  bewildered,  confused.  As 
Winthrop  took  his  hand  and  spoke  to  him,  he  lifted  his 
face  with  its  scorched  cheeks  and  closed  eyes,  and  answered  : 
"  There  was  some  furniture  saved,  I  think.  I  think  I  saved 
a  little.  Six  parlor  chairs — if  I  am  not  mistaken ;  and  a 
centre  table — I  was  sorry  about  that  bookcase." 

"  Hear  de  lamb !"  said  one  of  the  negro  women,  bursting 
into  fresh  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MARGARET  HAROLD  was  sitting  on  a  bench  at  the  East 
Angels  landing.  She  was  in  walking  dress;  her  large  hat, 
with  its  drooping  plumes,  made  her  face  look  like  that  of  a 
Gainsborough  portrait.  A  bunch  of  ferns  which  she  had 
gathered  had  slipped  from  her  lap  to  her  feet.  Carlos  Mateo, 
very  stiff,  stood  near.  It  was  sunset ;  a  mocking-bird  was 
pouring  forth  a  flood  of  notes,  rioting  in  melody,  it  was  mar 
vellous  to  realize  that  such  a  little  creature  could  produce 
from  his  tiny  throat  matchless  music  like  this. 

Coming  down  the  live-oak  avenue  appeared  the  figure  of 
Celestine. 

"  If  you  please,  Miss  Margaret,  Mrs.  Rutherford  has  sent 
me  to  look  for  yon." 

"Yes,  I  know  ;  I  am  late  to-night,  I  will  come  in  now." 

"There's  no  occasion  for  haste,"  Celestine  answered,  be 
stowing  a  short  glance  of  general  inspection  upon  the  la 
goon,  the  tinted  sky,  and  the  stiff  figure  of  the  crane.  "  What 
a  pagan  bird  that  crane  is !" 

"  You  hear,  Carlos  ?"  said  Margaret. 


506  EAST  ANGELS. 

But  Carlos  was  never  conscious  of  the  existence  of  Ce- 
lestine,  he  kept  his  attentions  exclusively  for  his  southern 
friends ;  the  only  exception  was  Margaret,  whose  presence 
he  was  now  beginning  to  tolerate. 

"  You  don't  call  that  mocking-bird  a  pagan,  do  you  ?" 
Margaret  asked. 

"I  don't  care  much  for  mocking-birds  myself"  Celes- 
tine  responded.  "  Give  me  a  bobolink,  Miss  Margaret !  As 
for  them  leaves  you've  got  there  —  all  the  sweet -smelling 
things  in  Florida — I'd  trade  the  whole  for  one  sniff  of  the 
laylocks  that  used  to  grow  in  our  backyard  when  I  was  a 
girl." 

"  Why,  Minerva,  you're  homesick." 

"  No,  Miss  Margaret,  no ;  I've  got  my  work  to  attend  to 
here  ;  no,  I  ain't  homesick :  you  get  home  knocked  out  of 
you  when  you've  traipsed  about  to  such  places  as  Nice,  Rome, 
Egypt,  and  the  dear  knows  where.  But  if  anybody  was  re 
ally  going  to  live  somewheres  (I  don't  mean  just  staying,  as 
we're  doing  now),  talk  about  choosing  between  this  and  New 
England — my !" 

Margaret  rose. 

"There's  no  occasion  for  haste  if  you  don't  want  to  go 
in  just  yet,"  said  Celestine  ;  "  she  isn't  alone,  I  saw  Dr.  Kirby 
ride  up  just  as  I  came  away.  Well — she's  got  on  that  ma 
roon  silk  wrapper." 

"  Nobody  has  such  taste  as  you  have,  Celestine,"  said  Mar 
garet,  kindly.  "  My  aunt  is  always  becomingly  dressed." 

There  was  a  little  movement  of  the  New  England  woman's 
mouth,  which  was  almost  a  grimace.  In  reality  it  expressed 
her  pride  and  pleasure — though  no  one  would  have  suspect 
ed  it.  It  was  the  only  acknowledgment  she  made. 

Dr.  Kirby  was  sitting  with  his  esteemed  friend  when  Mar 
garet  entered. 

His  esteemed  friend's  feeling  for  Margaret  now  seemed  to 
be  always  a  tender  compassion. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  fear  you  have  been  out  too  long,  you 
look  pale,"  was  the  present  manifestation  of  it. 

"  I  have  often  thought  what  a  variation  it  would  make  in 
the  topics  of  my  friends,"  said  Margaret,  as  she  drew  off  her 
gloves,  "  if  I  should  take  to  painting  my  cheeks  a  little ; 


EAST  ANGELS.  507 

think  of  it — a  touch  of  rouge,  now,  and  the  whole  conversa 
tion  would  be  altered." 

"  I  am  sure  that,  for  artistic  purposes  at  least,"  said  Dr. 
Kirby,  gallantly,  "rouge  would  be  totally  misapplied.  We 
all  know  that  Mrs.  Harold's  complexion  has  always  the  pur 
est,  the  most  natural,  the  most  salubrious  tint ;  it  is  the 
whiteness  of  Diana." 

"  Pray  give  those — those  green  things  to  Looth,"  Aunt 
Katrina  went  on,  languidly;  "I  hope  they  are  not  poison- 
ivy  ?"  (Aunt  Katrina  lived  under  the  impression  that  every 
thing  that  came  from  the  woods  was  poison-ivy.)  "  And  do 
go  to  my  room,  dear  child,  and  sit  down  there  a  while  before 
the  fire — there's  a  little  fire — and  let  Looth  change  your 
shoes,  and  make  you  a  nice  cup  of  tea.  Later — later"  Aunt 
Katrina  went  on,  more  animatedly,  "  we'll  have  some  whist." 
She  spoke  as  though  she  were  holding  out  something  which 
Margaret  would  be  sure  to  enjoy. 

There  were  very  few  evenings  now  when  Aunt  Katrina 
did  not  expect  her  niece  to  make  one  at  the  whist -table 
drawn  up  at  her  couch's  side,  the  other  players  being  Dr. 
Kirby,  Betty,  or  occasionally  Madam  Ruiz  or  Madam  Giron. 
The  game  had  come  to  be  her  greatest  pleasure,  she  had 
therefore  established  and  set  going  in  her  circle  of  friends 
the  idea  that  it  was  an  especial  pleasure  to  Margaret  also ; 
Aunt  Katrina  was  an  adept  in  such  tyrannies. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Moore  to-day  2"  Margaret  inquired,  not  re 
plying  to  the  change  of  shoes. 

"  He  improves  every  hour,  it's  wonderful !  He  is  getting 
well  in  half  the  time  that  any  one  else  would  have  taken. 
He  will  walk  as  lightly  as  ever  before  long — or  almost  as 
lightly.  He  is  rather  uncomfortably  comfortable  just  now, 
however,"  the  Doctor  went  on,  laughing,  "  he  doesn't  know 
how  to  adapt  himself  to  all  his  new  luxuries ;  he  took  up  an 
ivory-handled  brush  this  morning  almost  as  though  it  were 
an  infernal  machine." 

"  I  should  hardly  think  Mrs.  Moore  would  approve  of  useless 
luxuries,"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  not  with  a  sniff — Aunt  Katrina 
never  sniffed — but  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  tip  of  her 
very  well  shaped  nose;  she  followed  the  movement  with  a 
light  stroke  upon  that  tip  with  her  embroidered  handkerchief. 


508  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Penelope  nowadays  approves  of  everything  for  her  Mid- 
dleton,"  said  Dr.  Kirby,  laughing  again.  "  I  believe  she'll 
deck  him  out  with  pink  silk  curtains  round  his  bed  before 
she  gets  through." 

"Yes  —  but  ivory-handled  brushes"  said  Aunt  Katrina, 
confining  herself,  as  usual,  to  the  facts.  "  And  his  hair  is  so 
thin,  too !" 

"  I  must  confess  I  roared — if  you  will  permit  the  rather 
free  expression.  But  the  brushes  came  with  the  other  things 
that  nephew  of  yours  sent  down ;  I  believe  he's  trying  to 
corrupt  the  dominie." 

"  I  am  glad,  and  very  thankful  to  hear  that  Mr.  Moore  is 
going  on  so  well,"  said  Margaret,  "  there  is  nothing  I  care  so 
much  about."  Carrying  her  plumed  hat  in  her  hand,  she  left 
the  room. 

"  He  is  an  excellent  man,  Mr.  Moore — most  excellent,"  ob 
served  Aunt  Katrina,  a  little  stiffly  ;  "  of  course  we  can  never 
forget  our  obligations  to  him." 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  answered  Reginald  Kirby, 
for  the  first  time  losing  some  of  his  gallantry  of  tone. 

"  I  am  sure  we  have  shown  that  we  do  not  forget  them," 
Aunt  Katrina  went  on,  with  dignity.  "  Margaret  has  shown 
it,  and  Evert ;  between  them  they  have  made  Mr.  Moore  com 
fortable  for  life." 

"There  wouldn't  have  been  much  life  left  in  any  of  you 
without  him,"  said  Kirby,  still  fierily. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  not  so  dependent  upon  my  niece, 
dear  as  she  is  to  me,  as  that ;  I  think  such  dependence  wrong. 
You  must  remember,  too,  that  I  have  already  been  through 
great  sorrows — the  greatest ;  my  life  has  not  been  an  easy 
one."  The  gemmed  hand  was  gently  raised  here  ;  then 
dropped  with  resignation  upon  the  maroon  silk  lap.  "  I  es 
teem  Mr.  Moore  highly — haven't  I  mentioned  to  you  that 
I  do  ?  surely  I  have.  But  I  cannot  be  deeplv  interested  in 
him  ;  Mr.  Moore  is  not  an  interesting  man,  he  is  not  an  ex 
citing  man.  I  am  afraid  that  when  I  care  for  a  friend,"  said 
Aunt  Katrina,  frankly,  "when  I  find  a  friend  delightful,  I  am 
afraid  I  am  apt,  yes,  very  apt,  to  make  comparisons."  And 
she  glanced  at  the  Doctor  with  a  gracious  smile. 

"  Pardon  ray  ill  temper,"  murmured  the  Doctor,  completely 


EAST  AXGELS.  509 

won  again.  "  After  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  conviction, 
"  she's  a  deucedly  fine  woman  still." 

Three  months  had  elapsed  since  the  burning  of  the  house 
on  the  river. 

Mr.  Moore  had  remained  for  four  weeks  in  the  neighbor 
ing  hotel,  his  wife  and  Dr.  Kirby  constantly  with  him.  They 
had  then  decided  to  take  him  on  a  litter  to  Gracias;  they 
crossed  the  St.  John's  in  safety,  and  came  slowly  over  the 
pine  barrens. 

As  they  approached  the  town,  Dr.  Kirby,  who,  with  Win- 
throp,  was  accompanying  the  litter  on  horseback,  a  little  in 
advance,  saw  a  number  of  people  in  the  road. 

"  They  have  come  out  to  meet  him,"  said  the  Doctor,  an 
grily.  "  How  senseless  !  how  wicked  !  In  his  present  state 
the  excitement  will  kill  him ;  I  shall  ride  forward  and  tell 
them  to  go  back." 

"  No,  don't,"  said  Winthrop  ;  "  I  think  you're  mistaken, 
I  think  it  will  do  him  good.  He  has  never  in  the  least  un 
derstood  how  much  they  care  for  him ;  he  has  been  kept 
both  mentally  and  physically  too  low.  What  he  needs  now 
is  a  richer  diet." 

"  Are  you  turning  into  a  doctor  yourself?"  inquired  Kirby, 
with  impatience,  yet  struck,  too,  by  the  suggestion.  u  It  is 
true  that  I  have  always  said  he'd  be  twice  the  man  he  was  if 
he  had  a  glass  of  port  with  his  dinner." 

"  This  will  be  the  glass  of  port." 

Mr.  Moore's  litter  had  curtains,  which  were  down,  he  had  not 
yet  seen  the  assemblage.  His  improvised  couch  was  swung 
carefully  across  a  large  wagon,  which  was  drawn  by  Win- 
throp's  horses  on  a  walk,  a  man  leading  them  ;  Penelope  fol 
lowed  in  another  carriage,  which  Winthrop  had  also  provided. 

"  I  declare  —  it's  all  Graoias  !"  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  as 
they  came  near  the  assembled  groups.  "  Not  only  our  own 
people,  but  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels'  people  have  come  too — 
there's  Father  Florencio  at  the  head." 

Penelope  had  now  discovered  the  assemblage,  and  had 
bidden  her  coachman  hasten  forward.  Descending  with  her 
weak  step,  she  herself  fastened  back  the  curtains  of  the  litter  ; 
"  Dear,"  she  said,  tenderly,  "  they  have  come  out  to  meet  you 
— the  Gracias  people.  I  know  you  will  be  glad." 


510  EAST  ANGELS. 

She  kissed  him,  and  rearranged  his  pillows ;  then  she  let 
Wintbrop  help  her  back  into  her  carriage,  which  fell  be 
hind  again.  Penelope  agreed  with  him,  evidently,  in  think 
ing  that  excitement  would  do  the  injured  man  good. 

Winthrop,  who  had  dismounted,  gave  his  horse  to  Tom, 
and  walked  himself  beside  the  litter ;  the  Doctor  rode  on  the 
other  side,  and  thus  they  went  on  their  way  again  towards 
the  waiting  people. 

These  people  were  showing  more  sense  than  the  Doctor 
had  given  them  credit  for;  they  had  drawn  themselves  up 
in  two  lines,  one  on  each  side  of  the  narrow  pine  barren  road, 
on  the  right  the  congregation  of  St.  Philip  and  St.  James, 
with  their  senior  warden  at  the  end  of  the  line;  and,  oppo 
site,  the  flock  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels,  led  by  their  benign, 
handsome  old  priest,  Father  Florencio.  Then,  farther  on,  at 
a  little  distance,  came  the  negroes,  drawn  up  also  in  two  lines. 

The  whites  were  very  still ;  they  did  not  cheer,  they  bowed 
and  waved  their  hands.  Mr.  Moore  looked  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  turning  his  head  a  little,  and  peering  from  his  half- 
closed  eyes,  as  his  litter  passed  on  between  the  ranks  of 
friends.  It  had  been  agreed  that  nothing  should  be  said — 
he  was  too  weak  to  bear  it;  but  all  the  people  smiled,  though 
many  of  them  felt  their  tears  starting  at  the  same  moment, 
as  they  saw  his  helpless  form ;  they  smiled  determinedly, 
and  winked  back  the  moisture,  he  should  see  none  but  cheer 
ful  faces  as  he  passed.  At  the  end  of  the  line  the  senior 
warden,  in  their  name,  stepped  forward  and  pressed  the  rec 
tor's  hand.  And  then  from  the  other  side  came  Father 
Florencio,  who  heartily  did  the  same. 

Penelope,  looking  from  the  open  carriage  behind,  was  cry 
ing.  But  Mr.  Moore  himself  was  not  excited.  He  thought 
it  very  beautiful  that  they  should  all  have  come  out  in  this 
way  to  meet  him,  it  was  the  sign  of  a  great  kindness. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  it  was  the  sign  of  a  great 
admiration  as  well. 

When  the  litter  came  abreast  of  the  two  long  lines  of 
blacks,  they  could  not  keep  back  their  demonstrations  of 
welcome  quite  so  completely  as  the  whites  had  done ;  the 
Baptist  minister  of  their  own  race,  who  was  the  pastor  of 
most  of  them,  stood,  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  with  his  hand 


EAST  ANGELS.  511 

np  warningly,  in  order  to  check  their  exuberance.  One  broad 
gleam  of  white  teeth  extended  down  the  entire  line,  and,  "  He's 
come  back  fum  de  gcJd'n  gate!"  "Bless  de  passon !"  were 
murmured  in  undertones  as  the  litter  passed.  And  then, 
behind  it,  there  were  noiseless  leaps,  and  hats  (most  of  them 
battered)  in  the  air;  next,  they  all  ran  forward  over  the  bar 
ren  in  a  body,  in  order  to  precede  the  procession  into  Gracias. 

"Don't  shout — do  you  hear  me? — no  shouting,"  said  Dr. 
Kirby,  imperatively.  He  had  been  obliged  to  leave  his  place 
beside  the  litter,  there  was  no  room  for  his  horse  between 
the  close-pressing  ranks ;  now  he  rode  forward  in  order  to 
keep  a  control,  if  possible,  over  the  joyous  throng.  "  If  you 
shout,  it  will  be  very  bad  for  him,"  he  went  on,  threatening 
ly.  He  had  stopped  his  horse  and  was  addressing  them  from 
the  saddle ;  the  litter  was  some  distance  behind. 

"  But  we  gotter  do  sumpen,  marse,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
protestingly. 

"  Dance,  then !  But  make  no  noise  about  it ;  when  he's 
safely  in  his  own  house  again,  then  go  down  to  the  pier,  if 
you  like,  and  shout  as  much  as  you  please." 

This  was  done.  The  negroes  preceded  the  litter  through 
the  streets  of  Gracias,  and  waited  in  sympathetic  silence  un 
til  Mr.  Moore  had  been  carried  into  the  rectory,  and  the  door 
was  closed  behind  him  ;  then  they  adjourned  to  the  pier, 
and  danced  and  shouted  there  as  if,  old  Mrs.  Kirby  declared, 
with  her  hand  over  her  little  ears — "  as  if  they  meant  to  raise 
the  dead." 

"  No,  ma,  no ;  they  mean  to  raise  the  living  i£  they  can," 
said  her  son,  when  he  came  in. 

He  had  been  more  affected  than  he  would  confess  by  that 
welcome  out  on  the  barren.  He  had  not  known  himself 
how  much  attached  he  was  to  the  mild-voiced  clergyman 
until  it  had  become  probable  that  soon  they  should  hear  that 
voice  no  more.  The  danger  of  death  was  now  averted,  he 
hoped,  though  the  illness  might  be  a  long  one ;  in  his  own 
mind  he  registered  a  vow  never  to  call  any  one  "  limp  "  again  ; 
— he  had  called  Mr.  Moore  that  about  once  a  week  for  years. 
"There's  a  kind  of  limpness  that's  strength" — thus  he  lect 
ured  himself.  "  And  you,  Reginald  Kirby,  for  all  your  talk, 
might  not,  in  an  emergency,  be  able  even  to  approach  it.  And 


512  EAST  ANGELS. 

turning  out  your  toes,  and  sticking  out  your  chest  won't  save 
you,  my  boy  ;  not  a  whit !" 

Fond  as  Aunt  Katrina  was  of  the  position  of  patroness, 
she  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  some  steps  that  were 
taken,  later.  "  A  proper  acknowledgment,  of  course,  is  all 
very  well,"  she  said.  "  But  you  and  Margaret,  between  you, 
have  really  given  Mr.  Moore  a  comfortable  little  fortune. 
And  you  have  put  it  in  his  own  hands,  too — to  do  what  he 
likes  with !" 

"Whose  hands  would  you  have  put  it  into?"  Winthrop 
asked. 

"A  lawyer's,  of  course,"  Aunt  Katrina  answered. 

"I  am  afraid  Margaret  and  I  are  not  always  as  judicious 
as  you  are,  Aunt  Kate." 

Aunt  Kate  was  not  quick  (it  was  one  of  the  explanations 
of  the  preservation  of  her  beauty).  "  No,  you're  not ;  but  I 
wish  you  were,"  she  responded. 

Mr.  Moore  knew  nothing  of  the  increase  of  his  income ;  it 
was  Penelope  who  had  been  won  over  by  Winthrop's  earnest 
logic — earnest  in  regard  to  the  comfort  of  the  poor  sufferer 
lying  blinded,  voiceless,  helpless,  in  the  next  room.  What 
Winthrop  was  urging  was  simply  that  money  should  not  be 
considered  in  providing  for  him  every  possible  alleviation  and 
luxury.  His  illness  might  be  a  long  one  (at  that  stage — it 
was  while  Mr.  Moore  was  still  in  the  river  hotel — no  one 
spoke  of  death,  though  all  knew  that  it  was  very  near) ;  ev 
erything,  therefore,  should  be  done  to  lighten  it.  If  the  rec 
tory  was  gloomy,  another  house  in  Gracias  should  be  taken 
— one  with  a  large  garden ;  two  good  nurses  should  be  sent 
for  immediately  ;  and,  later,  there  must  be  a  horse,  and  some 
sort  of  a  low,  easy  vehicle,  made  on  purpose  to  carry  a  per 
son  in  a  recumbent  posture.  Many  other  things  would  be 
required,  these  he  mentioned  now  were  but  a  beginning; 
Mrs.  Moore  must  see  that  neither  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Harold,  nor 
himself  could  take  a  moment's  rest  until  everything  was  done 
that  could  be  done,  they  should  all  feel  extremely  unhappy, 
miserable — if  she  should  refuse  them.  If  she  would  but  stop 
to  think  of  it,  she  must  realize  that. 

Penelope  agreed  to  this. 

She  had  cried  so  much  that  she  was  the  picture  of  living 


EAST  ANGELS.  513 

despair,  she  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  her  husband  and  his 
pain ;  but  she  forced  a  momentary  attention  towards  Win- 
throp,  who  was  talking  so  earnestly  to  her,  trying  to  make 
some  impression. 

He  could  see  that  he  did  not  make  much. 

"  Your  husband  gave  his  life — it  amounted  to  that — to 
save  Margaret's;  she  was  nothing  to  him — that  is,  no  rela 
tive,  not  even  a  near  friend,  yet  he  faced  for  her  the  most 
horrible  of  deaths.  If  it  had  not  been  for  him,  that  would 
have  been  her  death,  and  think,  then,  Mrs.  Moore,  think  what 
we  should  be  feeling  now."  He  had  meant  to  say  this  stead 
ily,  but  he  could  not.  His  voice  became  choked,  he  got  up 
quickly  and  went  to  the  window. 

Penelope,  who,  tired  as  she  was,  and  with  one  hand  pressed 
constantly  against  her  weak  back,  was  yet  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  a  hard  wooden  chair,  ready  to  jump  up  and  run  into  the 
next  room  at  an  instant's  notice,  tried  again  to  detach  her 
mind  from  her  husband  long  enough  to  think  of  what  it  was 
this  man  was  saying  to  her;  she  liked  Margaret,  and  there 
fore  she  succeeded  sufficiently  well  to  answer,  "  It  would  have 
been  terrible"  Then  her  thoughts  went  back  to  Middleton 
again. 

"Don't  you  see,  then,"  said  Winthrop,  returning,  "that, 
standing  as  we  do  almost  beside  her  grave,  your  husband  has 
become  the  most  precious  person  in  the  world  to  us  ?  How 
can  you  hesitate  ?"  he  said,  breaking  off,  "  how  can  you  deny 
us  the  pleasure  of  doing  everything  possible — so  little  at  best 
— to  help  him  in  his  great  suffering?" 

"Oh  yes — his  suffering!  his  suffering!"  moaned  the  wife, 
the  tears  dropping  down  her  white  cheeks  without  any  dis 
tortion  of  feature.  Her  eyes  looked  large ;  singularly  enough, 
though  she  was  so  exhausted,  her  countenance  appeared  young 
er  than  he  had  ever  seen  it ;  under  the  all-absorbing  influence 
of  her  grief  its  usual  expressions  had  gone  and  one  could 
trace  again  the  outlines  of  youth  ;  her  girlhood  face — almost 
her  little-girl  face — had  come  strangely  back,  as  it  does  some 
times  after  death,  when  grandchildren  see,  with  startled,  lov 
ing  "surprise,  what  "  grandma "  was  when  she  too  was  only 
sixteen. 

Winthrop  took  her  thin  worn  hand  and  carried  it  to  his 
33 


514  EAST  ANGELS. 

lips ;  her  sorrow  was  very  sacred  to  him.  "  For  you  too,"  be 
urged — "  you  who  are  so  tired  and  ill — let  us  help  you  all  we 
can.  Do  not  refuse  us,  Mrs.  Moore ;  do  not." 

The  door  into  the  next  room  now  opened  softly,  and  Dr. 
Kirby  entered,  closing  it  behind  him.  "  No — sit  still,"  he 
said,  as  Mrs.  Moore  started  up.  "  There's  nothing  to  be  done 
for  him  just  now ;  he's  asleep."  He  called  it  "  sleep,"  to 
pacify  her.  "  I  came  in  to  say,"  he  went  on — "  I  knew  you 
were  here,  Mr.  Winthrop — that  there  must  not  be  so  much 
noise  on  this  floor ;  I  have  no  doubt  the  people  of  the  house 
are  as  careful  as  they  can  be,  in  fact,  I  know  they  are ;  but 
there  are  others  here." 

Winthrop  turned  to  Penelope.  "Now  will  you  consent?" 
he  said. 

(She  looked  at  him  ;  she  was  thinking  only  of  the  blessed 
fact  that  Middleton  was  asleep.) 

"  Yon  hear  what  Dr.  Kirby  says  ? — the  house  must  be  kept 
more  quiet.  I  can  clear  it  immediately  of  every  person  in  it. 
The  noise  is  bad  for  your  husband — don't  you  understand  ? 
It  will  make  a  difference  in  his — in  his  recovery." 

"  Oh !  do  anything,  anything !"  said  the  wife,  wringing  her 
hands. 

He  pursued  his  advantage.  "  You  are  willing,  then,  that  I 
should  do  everything  possible — for  his  sake,  you  know  ?  You 
consent." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  answered. 

"  By — all — means,"  said  Dr.  Kirby,  impressively.  "  Con 
sent?  Of  course  you  consent,  Penelope."  He  had  never 
called  her  Penelope  before  in  his  life.  After  that  he  never 
called  her  by  any  other  name. 

It  seemed  to  Reginald  Kirby  a  natural  thing  (and  a  small 
one  too)  that  these  northerners  should  wish  to  do  everything 
they  could  for  the  dying  hero  in  there ;  at  that  time  the  Doc 
tor  thought  that  the  clergyman  must  die. 

Twelve  hours  later,  with  the  exception  of  the  proprietors 
and  their  servants,  there  was  no  one  save  Mr.  Moore  and  his 
friends  in  the  river  hotel.  And  the  house  was  held  empty 
as  long  as  he  remained  there.  Aunt  Katrina  never  could  find 
out  how  much  those  weeks  cost  her  nephew. 

But  she  did  find  out  that  her  nephew  and  Margaret  to- 


EAST  ANGELS.  515 

gether  had  given  the  Moores  that "  comfortable  little  fortune," 
though  it  was  not  in  Mr.  Moore's  hands,  as  she  supposed ;  it 
was  in  Penelope's. 

Penelope  herself  knew  but  little  about  it  even  now,  save 
the  fact  (a  great  one)  that  where  she  had  once  had  a  dollar 
to  spend  in  a  certain  time,  she  now  had  ten ;  they  had  lived 
on  six  hundred  a  year,  they  now  had  six  thousand. 

Mr.  Moore  noticed  his  new  luxuries;  he  knew  that  Evert 
Winthrop  had  sent  many  of  them  down  from  New  York, 
and  he  felt  very  grateful ;  he  asked  Penelope  if  she  had  suf 
ficiently  thanked  him. 

"  Why,  Middleton  dear,  he's  grateful  to  you"  Penelope 
answered. 

She  never  confessed  that  it  was  she  herself  who  had  asked 
for  the  ivory  brushes.  Once  let  loose  on  that  track,  her  im 
agination  had  become  wildly  lawless ;  she  had  not  considered 
the  rectory  gloomy,  as  Winthrop  had  suggested,  but  there 
was  no  doubt  but  that  she  would  have  suspended  pink  silk 
curtains  round  Middleton's  bed  if  the  idea  had  once  occurred 
to  her.  She  had  always  had  a  secret  admiration  for  velvet 
coats — which  she  associated  in  some  way  with  King  Charles 
the  Martyr — and  she  now  cherished  a  plan  for  attiring  Mid 
dleton  in  one  (when  he  should  be  able  to  be  attired),  and  had 
even  selected  the  color — a  dark  wood  brown ;  it  would  not 
do  for  church  work,  of  course ;  but  while  he  was  still  an  in 
valid,  now —  And  she  lost  herself  in  dreams  of  satin  linings. 

On  the  day  after  the  fire  Margaret  had  left  the  river. 

It  was  now  thought  that  she  had  caused  the  fire  herself; 
she  had  wakened,  feeling  somewhat  chilled,  and  had  gone 
across  to  a  store-room  in  the  main  building  to  see  if  she 
could  get  a  blanket ;  having  no  candle,  she  had  taken  a  box 
of  matches  from  her  travelling-bag,  and  had  used  them  to 
light  her  way,  and  probably  some  spark  or  burning  end  had 
fallen  among  the  stored  woollens,  and  the  fire  had  smoul 
dered  there  for  some  time  before  making  its  way  out. 

She  was  suffering  from  nervous  shock,  she  knew  that  she 
should  be  of  no  use  as  a  nurse,  at  least  for  the  present ;  Dr. 
Kirby  and  Mrs.  Moore  had  reached  the  hotel,  and  Winthrop 
was  to  remain  with  them.  She  could  not  travel  far,  but  she 
could  cross  over  to  East  Angels;  she  decided  to  do  that. 


516  EAST  ANGELS. 

When  she  reached  the  house,  Aunt  Katrina's  voice  greeted 
her:  "Oh,  Margaret!  Margaret!  what  a  horrible  fright  you 
have  given  me !" 

Celestine,  however  (there  were  certain  emergencies  when 
Celestine  did  not  scruple  to  interrupt  Aunt  Katrina),  appear 
ed  promptly  upon  the  scene  from  somewhere,  took  Margaret 
up  in  her  arms  as  though  she  had  been  a  child,  and  carried 
her  off  to  her  bedroom. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Margaret !"  she  said,  weeping  over  her  one  or 
two  big  tears  as  she  laid  her  down  on  the  bed — "oh,  Miss 
Margaret !" 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  Minerva,  except  that 
I  am  tired,"  Margaret  answered. 

And  she  did  look  tired ;  she  was  so  exhausted  that  she 
had  not  jaughed  over  Celestine's  idea  of  taking  her  up  and 
carrying  her,  she  was  glad  to  be  carried. 

But  having  shed  her  tears,  Celestine  was  now  the  nurse 
again.  "  Don't  speak  another  word  !"  she  said,  peremptorily. 
And  then,  with  careful  hands,  she  undressed  Margaret  and 
put  her  to  bed. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  day  Margaret  was  able  to  present 
herself  again  in  Aunt  Katrina's  sitting-room. 

"  I  suppose  you've  got  to  get  it  over  some  time,"  was  Ce 
lestine's  reluctant  assent. 

"But  how  in  the  world,  Margaret,  did  you  ever  come  to 
go  back  to  that  house  all  alone,  late  at  night,  and  without 
letting  a  soul  know  ?"  demanded  Aunt  Katrina,  in  the  course 
of  her  cross-examination.  "I've  tried  to  conceal  what  I 
thought  of  such  a  freak !" 

"  It  was  not  late,"  Margaret  answered,  "  it  was  early.  I 
changed  my  mind  about  sleeping  at  the  hotel,  I  thought  I 
should  rather  sleep  in  my  own  house,  after  all ;  so  I  went 
back.  Then  when  I  found  that  Mr.  Moore  had  already  gone 
to  bed,  early  though  it  was,  I  decided  not  to  disturb  him." 

"  What  a  piece  of  craziness ! — and  to  think,  too,  that  at 
your  age  you  should  have  gone  wandering  about  with  match 
es  !  Well,  I  am  glad  that  /  at  least  have  no  such  tastes ; 
when  I  say  I  am  going  to  sleep  in  a  place,  I  sleep  there,  and 
you  have  no  idea  what  sacrifices  I  have  made  sometimes, 
when  travelling,  to  keep  my  word — keep  it  merely  to  myself ; 


EAST  ANGELS.  517 

it  is  so  much  better  to  do  what  you  say  you're  going  to, 
and  not  keep  changing  your  mind.  I  can  never  be  thank 
ful  enough  that  Lanse  was  not  there ;  he  could  never  have 
escaped  so  easily  as  you  did,  poor  fellow ;  it  really  seems  al 
most  providential — his  having  gone  off  on  that  journey  just 
at  that  time.  And  as  to  the  wandering  about  with  matches, 
Margaret  (for  it  all  comes  back  to  that),  it's  an  excellent  rule 
for  people  who  have  those  manias  never  to  allow  themselves 
to  get  out  of  bed  (until  the  next  morning,  of  course)  after 
once  they're  in ;  now  do  promise  me  that  you  will  make  it 
yours,  at  least  as  long  as  you  are  staying  here ;  otherwise  I 
shall  be  so  nervous." 

"  I  wasn't  in  bed  at  all,"  said  Margaret. 

"  A  lounge  is  the  same  thing ;  don't  quibble,"  said  Aunt 
Katrina,  severely. 

Here  Betty,  hurrying  in,  fell  on  Margaret's  neck  and  kissed 
her,  holding  her  closely  in  her  affectionate  arms.  "  Oh,  my 
dearest  child !  restored  to  us  from  that  dreadful  danger, 
thank  God  !  To  think  how  near  you  came —  Oh,  my  dear, 
dear  girl !"  She  kissed  her  again,  and  got  out  her  handker 
chief  to  dry  her  brimming  eyes.  "We're  going  to  have 
prayers  in  the  church,  my  dear — thanksgiving." 

"  What  a  pity  it  is,  Betty,  that  you  are  so  demonstrative ! 
Can't  you  be  glad  to  see  Margaret  without  boohooing  ?  And 
when  my  head  is  in  such  a  state,  too." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Kate,  I'm  sure,"  Betty  answered.  She 
sat  down  on  the  sofa  beside  Margaret ;  as  there  was  a  table 
in  front  of  her  which  concealed  the  movement,  she  put  out 
her  hand  furtively  and  took  Margaret's  in  hers,  holding  it 
with  tenderness,  and  giving  it  every  now  and  then  a  mother 
ly  pressure.  In  the  mean  while,  she  talked  as  usual  to  her 
dear  Kate.  This  was  not  duplicity  on  Betty's  part ;  on  prin 
ciple  she  never  opposed  Kate  now,  she  was  such  an  invalid, 
poor  thing  !  In  her  heart  lurked  the  conviction  that  if  Kate 
would  only  "  let  her  figure  go,"  and  be  just  "  natural,"  as 
she  (Betty)  was,  her  health  would  immediately  improve. 
People's  figures  altered  as  they  grew  older,  it  was  useless  to 
say  they  didn't ;  no  one  could  retain  a  slim  waist  after  forty- 
five  ;  dear  Kate  was  over  sixty, — really  it  was  not  seemly  to 
be  so  girted  in. 


518  EAST  ANGELS. 

If  dear  Kate  could  have  suspected  these  opinions,  there  is 
no  doubt  but  that  she  would  have  risen  from  her  couch,  fig 
ure  and  all,  and  turned  her  uncinctured  Elizabeth  from  the 
room. 

On  the  fourth  day  Winthrop  came  over  from  the  river. 

Learning  from  Celestine  that  his  aunt  was  in  a  fairly  com 
fortable  condition,  he  had  fifteen  minutes  of  serious  conver 
sation  with  her ;  he  told  the  truth  about  Lansing  Harold's 
relations  with  his  wife,  as  well  as  his  relations  with  another 
person. 

Aunt  Katrina  was  greatly  overcome.  She  cared  more  for 
Lanse  than  for  any  one  ;  much  as  she  cared  for  him,  she  had 
always  admired  him  even  more.  She  cried  —  really  cried; 
her  handsome  face  became  reddened  and  disfigured,  and  she 
did  not  think  of  it.  "He  was  such  a  dear  little  boy,"  she 
said,  sobbing.  Then  she  rallied.  "  If  he  had  had  another 
sort  of  wife,  he  would  have  been  different." 

"  That's  what  is  always  said  about  such  men.  In  any  case, 
there's  nothing  gained  by  going  back  to  that  now." 

"/think  something  is  gained;  justice  is  gained — justice 
for  Lanse.  And,  mark  my  words,  Evert,  Margaret  Criiger 
has  not  suffered." 

"  Whether  she  has  or  not,  she  is  going  to  leave  us." 

"  What?"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  quickly,  turning  towards  him 
her  altered  countenance.  He  scarcely  knew  it,  with  its  red 
dened  eyes  and  spotted  look. 

"You  thought,  I  believe,  that  she  was  only  going  to  be 
absent  a  short  time,"  he  went  on ;  "  that  it  was  merely  that 
she  wished  a  change.  But  it  was  more  than  that;  she  has 
a  plan  for  opening  that  old  house  of  hers  near  Cherry  Val 
ley,  and  living  there." 

"And  me?"  said  Aunt  Katrina,  in  angry  amazement. 
"  Does  she  cut  herself  free  from  me  in  that  way  ?  In  my 
state  of  health  ?" 

"  It  appears  so." 

Aunt  Katrina  remained  speechless.  Pure  dismay  was  now 
conquering  every  other  feeling. 

"  The  truth  is,  Aunt  Katrina,  you  have  not  been  kind 
enough  to  Margaret,  ever." 

"  Kind  !"  ejaculated  the  lady. 


EAST  ANGELS.  519 

"  No.  She  has  done  everything  for  you  for  years,  and 
you  have  constantly  illtreated  her." 

*  Illtreated  !     Good  heavens  !" 

'She  has  therefore  decided  —  and  I  am  not  much  sur- 
p,.  sed— that  she  would  rather  have  a  home  of  her  own." 

'And  you  abet  her  in  this?" 

'  Not  at  all,  I  think  she  had  much  better  stay  with  you ; 
I  am  only  explaining  to  you  how  she  feels." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  care  to  understand  Margaret  Cru- 
ger's  feelings." 

"  Exactly  ;  you  don't.     And  therefore  she  is  going. 

Aunt  Katrina  was  evidently  struggling  with  her  own 
thoughts.  He  left  her  to  the  contest. 

At  last,  "  Poor  child !"  she  said,  sighing,  as  she  gently 
pressed  a  handkerchief  to  different  parts  of  her  disordered 
countenance — "  poor  child  !" 

Winthrop  waited  for  further  developments ;  he  knew  they 
would  come. 

"  It  is  natural  that  I  should  have  been  cold  to  her,  perhaps, 
feeling  as  I  did  so  keenly  how  unqualified  she  was  to  make 
a  congenial  home  for  Lanse.  But,  as  you  say,  probably  she 
cannot  help  it,  it  is  her  disposition.  And  now,  to  think 
what  she  must  be  feeling ! — she  has,  in  her  way,  a  strict  con 
science,  and  to-day  she  faces  the  fact  that,  by  her  own  utter 
want  of  sympathy  (which  I  suppose  she  really  cannot  help), 
she  has  driven  her  husband  away  a  second  time,  sent  him  a 
second  time  into  bad  courses  !  I  realize,  indeed,  that  it  is  the 
moment  when  I  ought  to  do  everything  I  can  for  her,  when 
I  should  stifle  my  own  feelings,  and  treat  her  with  the  great 
est  tenderness ;  don't  you  agree  with  me  ?" 

"  Fully.  But  even  then  I  don't  know  that  you  can  induce 
her  to  stay." 

"  Really — the  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  sorry  I  feel  for 
her,  she  is  deeply  to  be  pitied ;  I  can  imagine  how  crushed  / 
should  have  felt  if  Peter  had  deserted  me !  But  if  he  had 
done  so,  I  should  have  gone  immediately,  of  course,  to  stay 
with  some  older  relative— it  is  the  only  proper  way.  You 
might  represent  to  Margaret  how  much  better  it  would  look 
if  she  should  continue,  as  before,  to  reside  with  me." 

" Perhaps  she  won't  take  so  much  pains  about  the  'look' 


520  EAST  ANGELS. 

of  anything,  this  time  •  perhaps  she  will  let  people  know  the 
real  facts ;  she  has  always  concealed  them  before." 

"  They  would  only  be  her  own  condemnation,  in  any  case  ; 
everybody  would  perfectly  understand  that  it  was  some  lack 
in  her"  answered  Aunt  Katrina,  with  decision.  "  But  I 
think  you  had  better  speak  to  her,  and  immediately  ;  it  is  so 
much  more  desirable,  on  her  own  account,  that  she  should 
remain  with  me.  I  don't  fancy  she  cares  much  for  you,  or 
she  would  never  have  tried  to  engage  you  to  that  odious 
Garda  Thorne ;  still,  you  are  a  relative — after  a  fashion,  and 
she  ought  to  listen  to  you ;  you  might  tell  her,"  she  added, 
her  voice  falling  into  a  pathetic  key,  "  that  probably  I  shall 
not  be  left  to  her  long." 

"  My  dear  aunt,  you  will  outlive  us  all,"  said  Winthrop, 
rising.  "  I  will  see  her,  and  do  what  I  can,"  he  added,  as  he 
left  the  room. 

At  first  he  could  not  find  Margaret,  she  was  not  in  any  of 
the  usual  places ;  he  began  to  fear  that  she  was  in  her  own 
room,  and  that  he  should  not  find  her  at  all.  At  last  he  met 
Celestine.  "  Do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Harold  is  ?"  he  said. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Evert,  she's  in  the  garden,"  Celestine  answered, 
with  some  reluctance.  "  I've  fixed  her  up  nicely  in  an  easy- 
chair  on  a  rug,  and  I've  told  everybody  to  keep  away,  so  that 
she  can  just  rest — that's  what  she  needs.  I've  let  her  have 
one  book — an  easy-looking  story  that  didn't  seem  exciting. 
And  I'm  going  out  after  her  in  about  an  hour,  to  bring  her 
in." 

"I  won't  be  any  more  exciting  than  the  easy-looking 
story,  Minerva ;  I  promise  you  that." 

Celestine  watched  him  go,  she  was  not  pleased,  but  she 
could  not  help  herself.  She  shook  her  head  forebodingly, 
with  her  lips  pursed  up ;  then  she  went  about  her  business 
— as  she  would  herself  have  said. 

Margaret  was  sitting  under  the  rose-tree,  in  the  easy-chair 
Celestine  had  mentioned,  a  rug  spread  under  her  feet.  She 
had  a  parasol  beside  her,  but  the  tree  gave  a  sufficient  shade ; 
over  her  head  Celestine  had  folded  a  Spanish  veil. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  we  should  see  you  to-day,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  it  hasn't  been  possible  to  come  before.  But  of 
course  you  have  had  my  letters — I  mean  about  Mr.  Moore  ? 


EAST  ANGELS.  521 

I  have  written  twice  a  day.  Is  that  the  book  Minerva  said 
was  an  easy-looking  one,  not  exciting — *  Adam  Bede  ?'  What 
do  you  suppose  she  calls  exciting  ?" 

"The  '  Wide,  Wide  World,'  I  presume." 

He  sat  down  on  the  bench  near  her.  Carlos  stalked  out 
of  the  bushes,  surveyed  them,  and  then,  with  great  dignity, 
secluded  himself  again. 

"  He  misses  Garda,"  Margaret  said. 

"  I  suppose  Garda  is  still  pursuing  her  triumphant  career 
over  there  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  triumphant.  She  is 
very  happy." 

"  That's  what  I  mean  ;  it's  extremely  triumphant  to  be  so 
happy,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know." 

"You  mean  you  have  never  been  either?  —  Margaret,  I 
have  come  to  speak  about  your  going  away.  Are  you  still 
thinking  of  going  ?" 

"  Yes ;  as  soon  as  I  am  a  little  stronger." 

"  Aunt  Katrina  has  sent  me  to  plead  with  you ;  of  course 
that's  the  last  thing  she  calls  it,  but  it's  pleading  all  the 
same.  I  don't  make  any  plea  for  her,  because  I  don't  think, 
as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  she  deserves  the  least  fragment 
of  one ;  but  I  will  say  that  I  have  told  her  the  whole  truth 
about  Lanse  at  last,  and  that  it  has  been  a  great  blow  to  her, 
I  have  never  seen  her  so  much  overcome.  She  has  rallied 
however,  she  has  taken  her  line ;  her  line  is  the  tenderest 
pity  for  you,  because  you  must  feel  it  all  to  be  so  entirely 
your  own  fault ! — you  see  how  much  that  allows  her  ?  But 
she  is  so  exceedingly  anxious — abjectly  anxious,  to  keep  you 
with  her,  that  I  think  you  need  fear  no  unpleasant  manifesta 
tions  of  it." 

"  Aunt  Katrina  does  not  really  need  me.  And  for  myself 
a  change  is  indispensable." 

"  But  it  is  so  safe  for  you  here — so  quiet  and  protected. 
It  is  a  species  of  home,  after  all.  I  like  to  see  you,  as  you 
are  at  this  moment,  sitting  in  this  old  garden ;  it  seems  to 
me  so  much  pleasanter  for  you  —  with  this  restful  air  to 
breathe — than  that  bustling,  driving  New  York." 

"  It  may  be  so.     But  I  need  change."' 


522  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  You  cling  to  that."  He  paused.  "  I  believe  you  sim 
ply  mean  freedom." 

"  Yes,  I  do  mean  it.  But  we  are  going  over  the  same 
ground  we  have  already  been  over ;  that  is  useless." 

"Everything  is  changed  to  me  since  then,"  said  Winthrop, 
abruptly.  "  I  have  seen  you  brought  back  from  the  very 
threshold  of  death,  I  cannot  pretend  to  be  the  same." 

"  I  am  the  same." 

"  Yes  ;  you  didn't  see  yourself — " 

"Don't  talk  about  it,  please.  It  is  true  that,  personally, 
I  do  not  realize  it.  But  when  I  think  of  Mr.  Moore,  I  do ; 
and  it  makes  me  ill  and  faint." 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  begin  your  freedom — yes ;  but  be 
gin  it  here  ?"  he  went  on,  returning  to  his  argument.  "Aunt 
Katrina  has  taken  a  new  line  about  you.  Why  shouldn't 
you  take  one  about  her  ?  And  about  everything  ?  The 
people  here  are  tiresome,  of  course ;  but  people  are  tiresome 
everywhere,  sooner  or  later,  unless  one  leads  a  life  of  just 
dipping  in,  never  staying  long  enough  in  any  one  place  to 
get  much  below  the  surface.  You  could  set  up  your  own 
horses,  your  own  servants ;  you  could  rearrange  half  the 
house  to  please  yourself;  you  could  carry  it  all  out,  as  re 
gards  Aunt  Katrina,  with  a  high  hand  ;  she  wouldn't  make  a 
murmur,  I'm  confident!  And  you  could  easily  take  some 
pleasant  trips  too  from  here — to  New  Orleans  and  Cuba; 
there's  really  a  great  deal  to  see.  And  if  you  are  tired  (as  I 
should  think  you  might  well  be)  of  always  saying  where  you 
are  going,  and  where  you  have  been,  how  long  you  have 
stayed  or  intend  to  stay,  and  why,  you  could  lay  down  a  rule 
that  no  one  should  ask  you  a  question.  If  they  should  con 
tinue  to  do  it,  you  might  throw  something  at  them."  His 
plan  seemed  to  him  so  good  as  he  unfolded  it  that  it  made 
him  jocular. 

She  returned  no  answer. 

"  You  don't  care  at  all  for  what  I  think,  or  wish." 

"  No,  I  don't." 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  there  with  face  averted,  his  ex 
pression  was  that  of  angry  helplessness.  "  All  I  want,"  he 
went  on,  trying  to  curb  his  irritation,  "  is  to  feel  that  you 
are  safe." 


EAST  ANGELS.  523 

"  I  shall  be  safe  wherever  I  am." 

"  No,  you  won't,  a  woman  like  you  cannot  be,  alone.  Of 
course  you  will  do  all  that  is  best  and  proper,  but  you  are  far 
too  beautiful  to  be  knocking  about  the  world  by  yourself." 

"Aren't  you  confusing  me  a  little  with  Garda?" 

"Your  sarcasms  have  no  effect;  if  I  were  as  innocent  in 
other  matters  as  I  am  with  regard  to  that  effulgent  young 
person,  I  should  be  quite  perfect.  But  we  won't  speak  of 
her ;  we'll  speak  of  you." 

"  I  am  tired  of  the  subject."  She  looked  towards  the  gate 
as  if  in  search  of  Celestine. 

"  She  won't  be  here  for  some  time  yet.  Bear  with  me  a 
little,  Margaret,  don't  be  so  impatient  of  the  few  minutes  I 
have  secured  with  you ;  what  we're  deciding  now  is  impor 
tant — your  whole  future." 

"  It  is  already  decided." 

He  dashed  his  hand  down  upon  his  knee.  "There's  no 
use  trying  to  argue  with  women  !  A  woman  never  compre 
hends  argument,  no  matter  how  strong  it  may  be." 

She  was  silent.  Her  face  had  a  weary  look,  but  there 
were  in  it  no  indications  of  yielding. 

"You  appear  to  be  determined  to  go,"  he  began  again; 
"if  you  do  go,  Aunt  Katrina'will  have  the  mental  exercise 
of  learning  to  get  on  without  either  of  us." 

She  looked  up  quickly  ;  his  eyes  were  turned  away  now, 
straying  over  the  tangled  foliage  of  the  crape-myrtles. 

"  I  am  sick  of  everything  here,"  he  went  on — "  East  An 
gels,  Gracias,  the  whole  of  it.  If  you  are  tired  of  seeing  the 
same  few  people  always  day  after  day,  what  must  I  be? 
There  are  two  spinster  cousins  of  Aunt  Katrina's  who  might 
come  down  here  for  a  while,  and  I  dare  say  they  would  come 
if  I  should  ask  them  ;  with  these  ladies  to  manage  the  house, 
with  Dr.  Reginald  and  Betty,  Celestine  and  Looth,  Aunt 
Katrina  ought  to  be  tolerably  comfortable." 

Margaret  had  listened  with  keen  attention.  But  she  did 
not  answer  immediately ;  when  she  did  reply,  she  spoke  qui 
etly.  "  Yes,  I  should  think  you  would  be  glad  to  go  north 
again,  you  have  been  tied  down  here  so  long.  I  am  sure 
we  can  assume  now  that  there  is  at  least  no  present  danger 
in  Aunt  Katrina's  case ;  both  of  us  certainly  are  not  needed 


524  EAST  ANGELS. 

for  her,  and  therefore,  as  you  did  not  speak  of  going,  I 
thought  I  could.  But  now  that  you  have  spoken,  now  that 
I  see  you  do  wish  to  go,  I  feel  differently,  I  give  you  the 
chance.  The  change  I  wished  for  I  will  create  here,  I  will 
create  it  by  buying  this  house  from  you — that  will  be  a 
change ;  I  can  amuse  myself  restoring  it,  if  one  can  say  that, 
when  it's  not  a  church." 

"  You  would  do  that  ?"  said  Winthrop,  eagerly.  Then  he 
colored.  "  I  see ;  it  means  that  you  will  stay  if  /  go  1" 

"  I  shall  do  very  well  here  if  I  have  the  place  to  think 
about,"  she  went  on,  "  I  shall  have  the  land  cultivated ;  per 
haps  I  shall  start  a  new  orange  grove.  Of  course  I  shall 
lose  money ;  but  I  can  employ  the  negroes  about  here,  and 
I  should  like  that ;  as  to  the  household  arrangements,  Aunt 
Katrina  would  be  staying  with  me,  not  I  with  her;  that 
would  make  everything  different." 

"  Yes ;  I  could  not  come  here  as  I  do  now,  bag  and 
baggage." 

"I  should  not  ask  you,"  she  answered, "smiling.  "I  be 
lieve  in  your  heart  you  like  no  woman  to  lead  a  really  inde 
pendent  life." 

"  You're  right,  I  do  not.     They're  not  fitted  for  it." 

"Oh—" 

"  And  they're  not  happy  in  it." 

"It's  so  good  of  you  to  think  of  our  happiness." 

"  All  this  is  of  no  consequence,  Margaret,  it's  quite  beside 
the  mark.  The  real  issue  is  this :  if  I  stay,  you  go ;  if  I  go, 
you  will  stay." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  like  repetitions ;  you're  always  so 
severe  on  poor  Aunt  Betty  when  she  indulges  in  them." 

"You've  got  the  upperhand,  and  you  know  it,  and  are 
glorying,"  he  said,  sullenly. 

"Glorying!"  said  Margaret,  with  a  sudden  drop  in  her 
voice.  "  Well,  we  will  say  no  more  about  it,"  she  added. 

"  Excuse  me,  we  will  say  plenty  more.  I  would  do  a  great 
deal  to  keep  you  here,  there's  no  doubt  of  that.  If  I  must, 
I  must,  I  suppose !  You  may  have  the  place — though  I'm 
fond  of  it  still." 

"It  must  be  quite  fair?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  hesitat 
ingly. 


EAST  ANGELS.  525 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  not  to  come  back  and  hang  about 
in  the  neighborhood  ?  Oh,  rest  content ;  I've  had  enough 
of  the  Serainole  for  a  lifetime." 

"  I  presume  you  will  be  in  a  hurry,"  he  went  on.  "  You 
will  expect  to  have  the  deeds  made  out  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  I  should  rather  have  it  done  soon." 

"  Of  course. — How  you  hate  me !"     He  rose. 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  But  I'm  not  surprised — stubborn  fool,  ineffable  prig  as 
I  must  have  seemed  to  you  all  these  years !  Take  the  place. 
And  I'll  go." 

The  gate  clicked,  Celestine  was  coming  towards  them. 

"  But  though  I  acknowledge  my  own  faults,  don't  imagine 
I  admire  such  perfection  as  you  always  exhibit,"  he  went  on. 
"  It's  too  much,  you're  too  faultless ;  some  small  trace  of 
womanly  humility  would  be  a  relief,  sometimes."  He  left 
the  garden.  Celestine,  coming  up,  found  her  patient  looking 
anything  but  rested.  The  next  moment  she  put  her  hand 
over  her  eyes,  physical  weakness  had  conquered  her. 

"  Just  what  I  expected,  men  haven't  a  spark  of  gumption," 
said  Celestine,  indignantly.  "  He  might  have  seen  you  weren't 
fit  for  talking ;  anybody  could  have  seen.  There,  Miss  Mar 
garet,  there ;  don't  feel  so  bad,  you'll  soon  be  stronger  now." 
And  Celestine  put  one  arm  round  her  charge  tenderly. 

The  touch  made  Margaret's  tears  flow  faster ;  leaning  her 
head  against  her  faithful  New  England  friend,  she  cried  and 
cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  You're  clean  tuckered  out,  I  declare,"  said  Celestine,  half 
crying  herself.  "Everybody  plagues  you — I  never  see  the 
beat !  And  they  all  seem  to  think  they've  got  a  right  to. 
Just  get  real  mad,  now,  Miss  Margaret,  for  once ;  and  stay  so. 
My  !  wouldn't  they  be  surprised  ?" 

This  was  three  months  before.  Margaret  was  now  the 
owner  of  East  Angels. 

On  the  evening  when  she  had  returned  from  the  landing 
with  her  ferns,  and  had  found  Dr.  Kirby  talking  with  Aunt 
Katrina,  she  went  to  her  own  room ;  here  she  threw  off  the 
long,  closely  fitting  over-garment  of  dark  silk,  and  gave  it 
and  the  Gainsborough  hat  to  her  maid ;  she  had  a  maid 
now. 


526  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  If  you  please,  Mrs.  Harold,  there  are  five  letters  for  you ; 
they  are  on  the  dressing-table." 

"  Very  well ;  you  need  not  wait,  Hester,  I  shall  not  need 
you  at  present." 

The  woman  went  out  with  noiseless  step.  Margaret  turn 
ed  over  the  letters,  glancing  at  the  superscriptions  rather  lan 
guidly.  She  did  not  care  much  for  what  the  mails  brought 
her  at  present,  excepting  Garda's  short,  rapturous  notes  with 
various  foreign  headings. 

The  last  envelope  of  the  pile — it  is  always  the  last  letter 
that  strikes  the  blow — was  inscribed  in  a  handwriting  that 
made  her  heart  stop  beating.  "  Mrs.  Lansing  Harold  "  was 
scrawled  there,  in  rather  large,  rough  letters;  and  within,  at 
the  end  of  the  second  page — there  were  only  two  filled — the 
same  name  was  signed  without  the  "  Mrs." 

Lanse  had  come  back  to  America.  He  was  coming  back 
to  Florida.  He  was  on  his  way  at  that  moment  to  Fer- 
nandina,  having  selected  that  place  because  he  had  learned 
that  she  had  "  burned  down  the  house  on  the  point,"  which, 
he  thought  she  would  allow  him  to  say,  was  inconsiderate. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  take  her  by  surprise,  he 
would  go  to  Fernandina,  and  wait  there.  He  was  a  cripple 
indeed,  this  time.  And  forever.  No  hope  of  a  cure,  as  there 
had  been  before.  It  wasn't  paralysis,  it  was  something  with 
a  long  name,  which  apparently  meant  that  he  was  to  spend 
the  rest  of  his  days  in  bed,  with  the  occasional  variation  of 
an  arm-chair.  This  last  journey  of  his  abroad  had  been  a 
huge  mistake  from  beginning  to  end  (the  only  one  he  had 
ever  made — he  must  say  that).  But  he  didn't  suppose  she 
would  care  to  hear  the  particulars;  and  he  should  much  pre 
fer  that  she  should  not  hear  them,  it  wasn't  a  subject  for  her. 
He  had  come  home  this  time  for  good  and  all,  it  would  never 
be  possible  for  him  to  run  away  again,  she  might  depend 
upon  that.  In  such  afflictions  a  man,  of  course,  counted 
upon  his  wife  ;  but  he  wished  to  be  perfectly  reasonable,  and 
therefore  he  would  live  wherever  she  pleased — with  his  nurses, 
his  water-pillows,  and  his  back  rest — yes,  he  had  come  to 
that!  At  present  it  wasn't  clear  to  him  what  he  was  going 
to  do  to  amuse  himself.  He  could  use  his  hands,  and  he 
had  thought  of  learning  to  make  fish-nets.  But  perhaps  she 


EAST  ANGELS.  527 

could  think  of  something  better  ?  And  then,  with  a  forcible 
allusion  to  the  difficulties  of  his  present  progress  southward, 
and  a  characteristic  summing  up  of  the  merits  of  the  hotel 
where  he,  with  his  two  attendants,  was  resting  for  a  day,  the 
short  two  pages  ended  abruptly  with  his  name. 

His  wife  had  sunk  into  a  chair,  she  sat  staring  at  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A  WEEK  later,  Margaret  was  out  to  walk  on  the  barren. 

She  had  walked  far,  though  her  step  had  been  slow  ;  it  seem 
ed  to  her  that  her  step  would  always  be  slow  now,  her  effort 
must  be  to  keep  it  steady.  She  had  reached  a  point  where 
there  rose  on  the  green  level  a  little  mound-like  island  of  a 
different  growth,  its  top  covered  with  palmetto-trees.  She 
made  her  way  to  the  summit ;  though  the  height  of  the  little 
hill  was  low,  the  view  one  obtained  there  was  extensive,  like 
that  from  a  small  light-house  in  a  salt-marsh.  Where  she 
stood  there  was  a  cleared  space — the  ground  had  been  burned 
over  not  long  before ;  on  this  brown  surface  the  crosiers  of 
new  ferns  were  unrolling  themselves,  and  when  tired  of  the 
broad  barren,  her  eyes  rested  on  their  little  fresh  stalks,  green 
and  woolly,  though  she  no  longer  stooped  to  gather  them. 
She  did  not  come  home  now  laden  with  flowers  and  vines  to 
plant  in  the  old  East  Angels  garden ;  the  life  she  had  been 
trying  to  build  up  there  was  suddenly  stopped,  a  completely 
different  one  was  demanding  her.  She  had  been  very  free, 
but  now  she  was  called  back — called  back  to  the  slavery,  and 
the  dread. 

Oh,  blessed,  twice  blessed,  are  the  women  who  have  no 
very  deep  feelings  of  any  kind !  they  are  so  much  happier, 
and  so  much  better!  This  was  what  she  was  saying  to  her 
self  over  and  over  again,  as,  with  one  arm  round  a  slender 
tree,  so  that  she  could  lean  her  head  against  it,  she  stood 
there  alone  on  the  little  island,  looking  over  the  plain.  Not 
to  care  very  deeply,  too  deeply,  for  anything,  any  one ;  and 
with  that  to  be  kind  and  gentle — this  was  by  far  the  hap 
piest  nature  for  women  to  have,  and  of  such  the  good  were 


528  EAST  ANGELS. 

made.  Mothers  should  pray  for  this  disposition  for  their 
daughters.  Anything  else  led  to  bitter  pain. 

She  thought  of  her  own  mother,  of  whom  she  had  no  rec 
ollection.  "  If  you  had  lived,  mother,  perhaps  I  should  have 
been  saved  from  this ;  perhaps  I  should  not  be  so  wretched — " 
this  was  her  silent  cry. 

She  heard  a  sound,  some  one  was  coming  through  the  high 
bushes  below ;  a  moment  more,  and  the  person  appeared. 
It  was  Evert  Winthrop. 

"You?"  she  said,  breathlessly.  "When  did  you  come? 
How  could  you  know  I  was  here  ?" 

"  For  once  I've  been  fortunate,  I  have  never  been  so  before 
where  you  were  concerned.  I  reached  East  Angels  half  an 
hour  ago,  Celestine  said  you  were  out  on  the  barren  some 
where,  and  Telano  happened  to  know  the  road  you  had 
taken ;  then  I  met  some  negro  children  who  had  seen  you 
pass,  and,  farther  on,  a  boy  who  knew  you  had  come  this 
way ;  he  brought  me  here.  But  I  saw  you  a  mile  off  my 
self,  you  are  very  conspicuous  in  that  light  dress  on  the  top 
of  this  mound." 

"  We  had  no  idea  you  were  coming — " 

"  I  couldn't  let  you  know  beforehand,  because  I  came  my 
self  as  quickly  as  a  letter  could  have  come ;  as  soon  as  I 
knew  you  would  need  help,  I  started." 

"Help?" 

"  Yes,  about  Lanse." 

**  Lanse  is  not  here." 

"  Oh,  I  know  where  he  is,  he  is  in  Fernandina ;  established 
there  in  the  best  rooms  the  hotel  affords,  with  three  attend 
ants,  and  everything  comfortable.  But  this  time  he  did  not 
tell  me  his  plans ;  he  arrived  in  New  York,  and  then  came 
southward,  without  letting  me  know  a  word  of  it.  I  heard 
of  him,  though,  almost  immediately,  and  I  started  at  once." 

Margaret  did  not  reply. 

"  You  will  need  help,"  he  went  on. 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"Then  he  has  not  written  to  you? — has  made  no  de 
mands?  I  shall  think  better  of  him  than  I  had  expected  to 
think,  if  that  is  the  case ;  I  supposed,  from  his  coming  south, 
that  he  had  intentions  of  molesting  you." 


EAST  ANGELS.  529 

"It  would  not  be  molesting." 

"  Has  he  written  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  demands,  then,  does  he  make — is  it  money  ?" 

"  He  wishes  me  to  come  back  to  him,  as  I  did  before. 
But  he  will  live  wherever  I  prefer  to  live.  He  is  quite  will 
ing  to  leave  the  choice  of  the  place  to  me."  She  spoke  slow 
ly,  as  though  she  were  repeating  something  she  had  learned. 

"  Very  good.  I  suppose  you  told  him  that  wherever  yon 
might  prefer  to  live,  there  would  at  least  be  no  place  there 
for  Lansing  Harold  ?" 

"  I  haven't  told  him  anything  yet.  He  was  willing  to  wait 
— he  wrote  that  he  would  give  me  a  month." 

"A  month  for  what?" 

"  For  my  answer,"  she  said,  drearily. 

"  It  won't  take  a  month.  That  is  what  I  have  come  down 
for — to  answer  in  your  place." 

She  began  to  look  about  for  the  best  way  to  descend. 

"  I  sent  the  boy  who  brought  me  here  to  East  Angels  for 
the  phaeton  ;  it  will  come  before  long,  you  won't  have  to  walk 
back.  Now,  Margaret,  let  us  have  no  more  useless  words  ;  of 
course  you  do  not  dream  of  doing  as  Lanse  wishes?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  shall  do  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  wish  to  go  back  to  that 
man — after  all  he  has  done  ?" 

"  I  do  not  wish  to.     But  I  must." 

"  You  shall  not !"  he  burst  out.  His  face,  usually  so  calm, 
was  surprisingly  altered ;  it  was  reddened  and  darkened. 

"  Nothing  you  can  say  will  make  any  difference,"  she  an 
swered,  in  the  same  monotonous  tone.  Even  his  rage  could 
not  alter  the  helpless  melancholy  of  her  voice. 

"Do  you  think  he  deserves  it — deserves  anything?  You 
actually  put  a  premium  on  loose  conduct.  You  reward  him 
for  it,  while — while  other  men,  who  are  trying,  at  least,  to 
lead  decent  lives,  are  thrust  aside." 

"  He  is  my  husband." 

"  So  good  a  one  !" 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Nothing  ?" 

"No;  not  with  my  duty." 

34 


530  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  I  believe  you  have  lost  your  wits,  you  are  demented,"  he 
said,  violently. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  demented !  Then  my  troubles  would 
be  over." 

The  despair  of  these  words  softened  him.  She  had  turned 
away,  he  followed  her.  "Margaret,  listen  to  reason.  In 
some  cases  it  is  right  that  a  wife  should  go  back  to  her  hus 
band,  almost  no  matter  what  he  has  done.  But  yours  is  not 
one  of  them,  it  would  kill  you." 

"  No  more  than  it  did  before." 

"  But  it's  worse  for  you  now." 

"  It's  exactly  the  same." 

"  He  left  you  a  second  time." 

"  I  have  only  to  thank  him  for  that,  haven't  I  ?  It  gave 
me  a  respite.  Over  there  on  the  river,  when  I  learned — when 
I  knew — that  he  had  really  gone,  I  could  scarcely  hide  my 
joy — I  had  to  hide  myself  to  do  it !  It  was  the  relief,  the 
delight,  of  being  free." 

"  The  law,  you  know,  would  free  you  forever." 

"  I  shall  never  take  advantage  of  it." 

"  Do  you  think  you  know  better  than  the  law  ?" 

"  Yes ;  the  law  only  touches  part  of  the  truth.  Its  plea 
would  not  do  for  me." 

"  This  is  pure  excitement.  Womanlike,  you  have  wrought 
yourself  up  to  this  new  view ;  but  it  is  without  a  grain  of 
foundation  in  either  justice  or  common-sense." 

"It  isn't  a  new  view,  I  have  always  known  what  I  should 
do.  That  was  the  reason  I  wished  to  keep  the  house  on  the 
river — so  that  it  could  be  ready  in  case  he  should  come  back. 
For  I  felt  that  he  might  come  at  any  time,  I  was  never  de 
ceived  as  to  any  permanent  improvement  in  his  health.  I 
have  thought  it  all  over  again  and  again ;  there  isn't  a  loop 
hole  of  escape  for  me.  Let  us  say  no  more." 

"  I  shall  say  a  great  deal  more." 

She  put  out  both  hands  towards  him,  with  a  desperate  re 
pelling  gesture.  "  Oh,  leave  me  !"  she  cried. 

"  I  shall  not  leave  you  until  you  have  given  me  an  expla 
nation  that  is  reasonable  ;  so  far,  you  have  not  done  it.  Time 
and  time  again  you  have  put  me  off,  to-day  you  shall  not." 

Her  own  cry  had  seemed  to  restore  to  her  her  self-control. 


EAST  ANGELS.  531 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  She  folded  her  arms  in  her  mantle. 
"  What  explanations  do  you  wish  ?"  she  asked,  coldly. 

"  Why  are  you  going  back  to  Lansing  Harold,  when  you 
are  not  in  the  least  forced  to  go  ?" 

"I  am  forced;  my  marriage  forces  me." 

"  Not  after  the  ill  treatment  you  have  received  from  him." 

"  He  has  never  ill-treated  me  personally ;  in  many  ways 
he  has  never  been  unkind,  many  men  called  good  husbands 
are  much  more  so.  He  does  not  drink.  If  he  drank,  that 
would  be  an  excuse  for  me — an  excuse  to  leave  him ;  but  he 
does  not,  I  have  never  had  a  fear  of  that  sort,  he  has  never 
struck  me  or  threatened  me  in  his  life.  And  I  have  no  chil 
dren  to  think  of — whether  his  influence  over  them  would  be 
bad.  That  too  would  have  been  an  excuse,  a  valid  one ;  but 
it  is  not  mine.  He  leaves  me  my  personal  liberty  as  he  left 
it  to  me  before.  In  addition,  he  is  now  hopelessly  crippled 
— he  has  sent  me  his  physician's  letter  to  prove  it ;  his  case 
is  there  pronounced  a  life-long  one,  he  will  never  walk,  or  be 
any  better  than  he  is  now.  Are  these  explanations  sufficient  ? 
or  do  you  require  more?" 

"No  explanations  can  ever  be  sufficient,"  Winthrop  an 
swered.  He  stood  looking  at  her.  "  Oh,  Margaret,  it  is  such 
a  fearful  sacrifice  !"  He  had  abandoned  for  the  moment  both 
his  anger  and  his  efforts  at  argument. 

"  Yes ;  but  that  is  what  life  is,  isn't  it  ?"  she  said,  her  voice 
trembling  a  little  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  No,  it's  not.  And  it  shouldn't  be.  Why  should  an  ut 
terly  selfish  man  of  that  kind,  who  has  forfeited  every  claim 
upon  you  a  hundred  times  over — why  should  he  be  allowed 
to  dictate  to  you,  to  wither  your  whole  existence?  Yes,  I 
am  beginning  again,  I  know  it;  but  I  cannot  help  it !  It  is 
true  that  I  have  always  talked  against  separations — preached 
against  them.  But  that  was  before  my  own  feelings  were 
brought  in,  and  it  makes  a  wonderful  difference  ?  When  a 
woman  you  care  for  is  made  utterly  wretched,  you  take  a 
different  view,  and  you  want  to  seize  your  old  preaching- 
self,  and  knock  him  against  the  wall !  It  is  not  right  that 
you  should  go  back  to  Lanse,  it  is  wicked,  as  murder  is 
wicked.  He  does  not  strike  you  —  that  may  be;  but  the 
life  will  kill  you  just  as  surely  as  though  he  should  give  you 


532  EAST  ANGELS. 

every  day,  with  his  own  hand,  a  dose  of  slow  poison.  You 
have  an  excessively  sensitive  disposition — you  pretend  you 
have  not,  but  you  have ;  you  would  not  be  able  to  throw  it 
off  —  the  yoke  he  would  put  upon  you,  you  would  not  be 
able  to  rise  above  it,  become  indifferent  to  it;  you  would 
never  grow  callous,  he  would  always  have  the  power  of  mak 
ing  you  unhappy.  This  would  wear  upon  you ;  at  last  it 
would  wear  you  out ;  you  would  die,  and  he  would  live  on  ! 
And,  besides,  remember  this — it  isn't  as  though  he  really  de 
pended  upon  you  for  personal  care ;  he  doesn't  need  you,  as 
far  as  that  goes,  he  says  so.  Give  him  your  money,  if  you 
like;  give  him  houses  and  nurses  and  servants,  every  luxu 
ry,  all  you  have ;  but  do  not,  do  not  give  him  yourself." 

She  remained  silent.  She  had  steeled  herself,  so  it  seemed, 
against  anything  he  could  say. 

"You  are  counting  the  minutes  before  the  phaeton  comes," 
he  went  on;  "that  is  your  only  thought —  to  get  away! 
Very  well,  then,  you  shall  have  the  whole,  which  otherwise  I 
would  have  kept  from  you ;  I  love  you,  Margaret,  I  have 
loved  you  for  a  long  time.  If  it  is  horrible  to  you  that  I 
should  say  it,  and  force  yon,  too,  to  hear,  bear  this  in  mind : 
though  I  say  it,  I  ask  for  nothing,  I  do  not  put  myself  for 
ward.  I  tell  you  because  I  want  you  to  understand  how  near 
your  best  interests  are  to  me — how  I  consider  them.  I  de 
serve  some  mercy,  I  have  tried  hard  to  hold  myself  in  check 
— did  I  say  a  word  all  that  night  in  the  swamp?  You  may 
imagine  whether  I  am  happy,  loving  you  hopelessly  as  I  do ! 
It  began  long  ago ;  when  I  thought  I  disliked  you  so  bitter 
ly,  that  was  the  beginning;  it  was  a  dislike,  or  rather  a  pain, 
which  came  from  your  being  (as  I  then  supposed  you  were) 
so  different  from  the  sweet  woman  it  seemed  to  me  you 
ought  to  be  —  ought  to  be  with  that  face  and  voice.  I 
watched  you ;  I  was  very  severe  in  all  I  said ;  but  all  the 
time  I  loved  you,  it  was  stronger  than  I.  I  feel  no  shame 
in  telling  it;  it  has  made  me  a  better  man — not  so  cold, not 
so  sure  of  my  own  perfection.  And  now,  if  you  will  only 
tell  me  that  you  won't  go  back  to  Lanse,  I  will  go.  And  I 
will  stay  away,  I  will  not  try  to  see  you,  I  will  not  even  write. 
And  this  shall  last  as  long  as  you  say,  Margaret — for  years ; 
even  always,  if  it  must  be  so.  What  can  I  do  or  say  more?" 


EAST  ANGELS.  533 

She  had  stood  still,  looking  at  the  ground,  while  he  poured 
forth  these  urgent  words ;  she  might  have  been  a  statue. 

"There's  an  icy  stubbornness  about  you — "  he  began  again. 
"  What  is  it  I  ask  ?  One  promise,  and  for  your  own  good 
too,  and  then  I  go  out  into  the  world  again,  bearing  my  pain 
as  best  I  can,  leaving  you  behind,  and  free.  I  don't  believe 
you  know  what  that  pain  is,  because  I  don't  believe  you  know, 
or  can  understand  even,  how  much  I  love  you.  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  put  it  into  words — I  am  no  longer  a  boy.  I  had 
no  idea  I  could  love  in  that  way — an  unreasoning,  headlong 
feeling.  There's  no  extravagant  thing,  Margaret — such  as  I 
have  always  laughed  at — that  I  would  not  do  at  this  mo 
ment;  and  to  feel  your  cheek  against  mine  —  I  would  die 
to-rnorrow." 

He  had  not  moved  towards  her,  but  she  shrank  back  even 
from  his  present  distance  ;  white-faced,  with  frightened  eyes, 
she  turned ;  she  looked  as  if  she  were  going  to  rush  away. 

"Don't  go, — I  will  not  say  another  word;  I  only  wished 
you  to  know  how  it  was  with  me,  it  is  better  that  you  should 
know." 

He  wished  to  help  her,  but  she  would  not  allow  it,  she 
pushed  the  close  bushes  aside  with  trembling  hands,  and 
made  her  way  down  alone.  They  reached  the  barren  ;  the 
phaeton  was  approaching. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  so  frightened,"  he  said. 

" — I  believe  you  are  sorry  for  me,"  he  went  on — his  voice 
was  gentle  now/  "  And  that  is  why  you  are  afraid  to  speak 
— lest  you  should  show  it." 

She  gave  him  one  quick  glance ;  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

"  That  is  it,  you  are  sorry.  I  thank  you  for  that ;  and  I 
shall  think  from  it  that  you  have  forgiven  me  those  years 
when  I  made  your  life  so  much  harder  even  than  it  was,  than 
it  need  have  been." 

The  phaeton  was  drawing  near. 

"  I  am  going  to  trust  you,  Margaret,  I  believe  that  I  can. 
You  will  not  speak,  you  think  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken. 
But  if  I  go  away  at  once,  and  do  not  return,  perhaps  you  will 
be  influenced  by  what  I  have  said,  and  by  what  is  really  the 
best  course  for  you  ; — perhaps  you  will  not  go  back  to  Lanse. 


534  EAST  ANGELS. 

At  any  rate  I  shall  be  showing  you  that  /  am  in  earnest, — 
that  I  can,  and  will  keep  my  promise." 

The  phaeton  drew  up  before  them. 

"  You  must  not  come  with  me,"  she  murmured. 

"  You  are  to  drive,  Telano,"  said  Winthrop,  as  he  helped 
her  take  her  place.  He  stood  there  until  the  light  carriage 
had  disappeared. 

Then  he  walked  northward  to  Gracias. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"  I  SAID  I  would  not  write.  And  I  will  not,  after  I  once 
know  that  your  refusal  has  been  sent.  It  does  not  seem  to 
me  that  I  am  asking  much,  it  cannot  long  be  kept  a  secret 
in  any  case,  and,  in  my  opinion,  should  not  be.  Let  Aunt 
Katrina  write  me  what  has  happened ;  she  won't  do  you  any 
too  much  justice — you  can  be  sure  of  that !  I  left  Gracias 
that  same  day,  as  I  said  I  would.  I  have  come  back  here 
and  gone  to  work  again ;  a  man  can  always  do  that." 

This  letter  of  Winthrop's  was  from  New  York.  He  had 
been  there  two  weeks,  and  there  were  now  but  ten  days  left 
of  the  month  which  Margaret  had  said  her  husband  had  al 
lowed  for  her  answer.  He  did  not  speak  of  this  in  his  let 
ter  ;  but  it  engrossed  all  his  thoughts. 

On  the  day  when  he  could  have  had  a  reply  from  East 
Angels,  there  was  no  letter  from  the  South.  He  waited 
twenty-four  hours  to  allow  for  delays  or  accident. 

Still  nothing. 

Margaret  did  not  then  intend  to  reply  ;  it  was  a  case  where 
she  would  have  written  immediately  (or  asked  Aunt  Katrina 
to  write),  if  she  had  intended  to  reply  at  all. 

"  I  am  not  worthy  even  to  be  spoken  to,  it  seems ;  I  am 
the  mud  under  her  feet.  But  it  shall  not  be  so  easy  as  she 
thinks !" 

He  took  the  next  train  bound  for  Washington,  Richmond, 
and  the  St.  John's  River.  It  was  the  third  time  he  had  made 
the  long  journey  within  the  space  of  four  weeks. 

He  was  in  such  a  fever  now — fever  of  irritation  and  anx- 


EAST  ANGELS.  535 

iety — that  he  did  not  any  longer  try  to  keep  up  his  trust  in 
her,  to  be  certain,  as  he  had  endeavored  to  be  during  the  in 
tervening  time,  that  she  had  been  influenced  by  what  he  had 
said,  or  by  her  own  more  deliberate  reflections,  and  that  in 
any  case,  whether  he  was  to  be  informed  of  it  or  kept  in  igno 
rance,  she  was  not  going  back  to  Lanse.  It  now  seemed  to 
him  possible  that,  in  her  strange  self-sacrificing  sense  of  duty, 
she  might  go.  He  ground  his  teeth  at  the  thought. 

The  leisurely  train  was  crossing  the  pine  lands  of  North 
Carolina,  making  such  long  waits  at  grassy  little  stations  to 
take  on  wood  that  those  passengers  who  had  a  taste  for  bot 
any  had  time  to  explore  the  surrounding  country  for  flowers. 
A  new  thought  came  to  him ;  it  was  that  he  need  not  have 
counted  so  carefully  the  days  of  the  month,  or  depended 
upon  that;  perhaps  she  had  not  waited  for  the  whole  time 
to  pass,  perhaps  she  had  gone  to  Fernandina,  was  already 
there.  Meanwhile — the  train  crept. 

"Oh,  can  you  tell  me — will  I  reach  Fayetteville  before 
dark  ?"  said  a  giri  behind  him.  He  knew  it  was  a  girl  by 
the  voice.  She  was  speaking,  apparently,  to  some  one  who 
shared  her  seat. 

This  person,  an  older  woman  (again  judging  by  the  tone), 
was  well  informed  as  to  the  methods  of  reaching  Fayetteville, 
the  trains,  and  the  hours.  This  matter  settled,  they  went  on 
talking. 

"  I  have  been  up  in  the  mountains  teaching,"  the  older 
woman  presently  remarked. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  girl,  sympathetically  (falling  inflection). 
"  I  have  been  there  a  year,  and  I  trust  whtsu  I  came  away 
I  left  light  behind." 
"  Oh  yes." 

"  At  present  I  have  no  situation,  though  I  have  one  in 
view.  They  are  most  anxious  to  have  me,  but  I  say  to  my 
self,1  Will  I  do  the  most  good  there?  Is  it  a  place  where 
my  influence  will  carry  the  most  weight?'  For  we  should 
all  do  the  best  we  can  with  our  talents,  it  is  a  duty  ;  I  do  the 
best  I  can  with  mine." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  reckon  so.  And  you  speak  so  beautifully  too. 
Perhaps  you've  spoken  ? — I  mean  before  people  ?" 

"  Never  in  public,"  answered  the  other  voice,  reprovingly  ; 


536  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  to  my  pupils,  but  never  in  public.  I  think  a  woman  should 
always  keep  her  life  secluded,  she  should  be  the  comfort  and 
the  ornament  of  a  purely  private  home.  We  do  not  exhibit 
our  charms — which  should  be  sacred  to  the  privacy  of  the 
boudoir — in  the  glare  of  lecture-rooms ;  we  prefer  to  be,  and 
to  remain,  the  low-voiced,  retiring  mothers  of  a  race  of  giant 
sons  whom  the  Muse  of  History  will  immortalize  in  the  char 
acters  of  soldier,  statesman,  and  divine." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  girl's  voice  again,  in  good-natured,  if 
inattentive,  acquiescence. 

Winthrop  glanced  back.  The  young  girl  was  charmingly 
pretty,  with  a  sweet  indifference  in  her  eyes.  The  older 
woman — she  was  over  fifty — was  of  a  martial  aspect,  broad- 
shouldered,  large-boned,  and  tall ;  her  upper  lip  was  that  of 
a  warrior,  her  high  cheek-bones  had  an  air  of  resolute  de 
termination.  Comfort  and  ornament  of  a  purely  private 
home,  as  she  had  just  proclaimed  herself,  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  her  powers  would  be  wasted  there ;  she  was  a  woman 
to  lead  an  army  through  a  breach  without  flinching.  The 
giant  sons  in  her  case  were  presumably  imaginary,  for  she 
gave  her  name  to  her  companion  as  they  parted :  "  Miss 
Louisa  Mearns — they  call  me  Lulette."  Her  voice  was  very 
soft  and  sweet. 

"  Southerner,  of  course,  with  those  lovely  tones,"  was  Win- 
throp's  mental  comment  as  she  passed,  stepping  rather  deli 
cately,  and,  tall  as  she  was,  without  any  stride.  "  But  she's 
got  a  thorough  soul  of  Maine,  though  she  doesn't  dream  of 
it.  There  must  have  been  transmigration  somewhere  among 
her  ancestors."  And  then  from  sheer  weariness  and  restless 
ness  he  went  into  another  car. 

His  feeling  was  that  this  train  would  be  in  North  Carolina 
a  week.  But  it  got  on.  It  traversed  South  Carolina  and 
Georgia,  it  passed  through  the  cotton  country,  it  crossed  beau 
tiful  rivers  rolling  slowly  towards  the  sea,  then  it  made  a  wide 
detour  round  Okefinokee  swamp,  and  at  last  brought  him 
again  to  the  margin  of  the  broad  St.  John's.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  half  a  lifetime  had  passed  since  he  left  it. 

He  reached  East  Angels  in  the  afternoon.  Cindy  appear 
ed.  Yes,  Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Mrs.  Harold  were  both  at 
home;  they  were  in  Mrs.  Rutherford's  sitting-room  up-stairs. 


EAST  ANGELS.  537 

But  when  she  had  preceded  him  and  opened  the  door  of  that 
apartment,  only  Aunt  Katrina  was  there. 

"  Mercy,  Evert !  where  did  you  come  from  ?"  she  exclaimed, 
in  a  key  rather  higher  than  her  usual  calm  tones.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  she  looked  frightened. 

"  From  New  York,  of  course.  You  are  alone  ?  Where  is 
Margaret?1'  He  spoke  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  she's  here"  responded  Aunt  Katrina,  quickly,  in  a  re 
assuring  voice. 

But  her  emphasis  told  him  that  it  might  not  be  "  here  " 
long,  it  might  be  some  other  word.  Would  that  word  be 
"  Fernandina  ?" 

At  any  rate,  Margaret  was  not  yet  gone. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'here?'    She's  not  in  the  room." 

"  She  doesn't  spend  every  moment  with  me ;  I  want  some 
time  for  my  own  reading  and — and  meditation.  She's  in 
the  garden,  or  the  drawing-room,  I  suppose  —  somewhere 
about." 

"  Aunt  Katrina,  tell  me  in  so  many  words — is  she  going 
back  to  Lanse  ?" 

"  Why — er — why,  yes,  I  believe  so."  Aunt  Katrina's  voice 
fairly  faltered. 

"  You  have  had  a  hand  in  this :  you  have  urged  her." 

"  Well,  Evert,  she's  Lanse's  wife,  you  know." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  I  have  told  you  already  that  I  don't  know." 

"Not  gone?"  he  said,  with  quick-returning  suspicion. 

"  Oh  dear  no  !     What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"  I'm  thinking  that  I  cannot  trust  either  of  you  !  When 
is  she  going,  then  ?" 

"  Well,  there  has  been  a  good  deal  about  that.  Back  and 
forth,  you  know  ;  letters  and — 

"When?"  he  repeated,  imperatively. 

"To-morrow,"  answered  Aunt  Katrina,  in  almost  the  same 
tone  as  his  own.  "  How  you  do  storm,  Evert !" 

But  he  had  left  the  room  before  her  words  were  finished. 

Margaret  was  not  in  the  drawing-room,  she  was  not  in  the 
garden.  He  met  Pablo.  "  Do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Har 
old  is  ?"  he  said. 

"  She's  in  der  yorrange  grove,  sah.    I  ben  dar  myse'f  look- 


538  EAST  ANGELS. 

en'  arter  der  place  a  little,  as  I  has  ter,  en  I  see  her  dar."  Pa 
blo  meant  the  old  grove — his  grove ;  the  new  grove  was  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  and  was  as  ugly  as  a  new  grove 
always  is.  Down  to  this  hour  old  Pablo  had  never  become 
satiated  with  the  delight  of  working  in  the  old  grove  at  his 
own  pleasure  and  according  to  southern  methods  alone;  poor 
little  Melissa  Whiting's  voice  had  long  been  stilled,  but  Pa 
blo  was  rioting  yet. 

The  old  grove  was  in  bloom.  It  was  not  so  productive 
now  as  it  had  been  in  Mrs.  Thome's  day,  but  it  was  more 
beautiful ;  Pablo's  rioting  had  not  included  steady  labor  of 
any  sort,  there  had  been  no  pruning,  and  very  little  digging ; 
the  aisles  were  green  and  luxuriant,  the  ground  undisturbed. 
The  perfume  of  the  blossoms  filled  the  air ;  on  some  of  the 
trees  blossoms  and  ripe  fruit  were  hanging  together. 

Winthrop  walked  on  under  the  bright  foliage  and  bride- 
like  bloom.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  Margaret. 

"  Of  course  she  would  not  be  here,"  he  thought,  "  or  at 
least  she  would  not  stay ;  it's  far  too  sweet." 

At  length  he  saw  her  light  dress.  She  was  not  in  the 
grove,  as  he  had  thought ;  she  was  in  a  glade  beyond  it.  Here 
there  was  an  old  nondescript  pillar,  crowned  by  a  clumsy 
vase.  She  was  leaning  against  this  ornament,  with  her  back 
to  the  grove;  one  arm  Jay  across  the  top.  She  wore  no 
gloves,  and  he  could  see  her  pretty  hand  with  its  single  ring, 
the  band  of  plain  gold.  In  front  of  her  there  was  the  low 
curb  of  an  old  well,  overgrown  with  jessamine  ;  she  appeared 
to  be  looking  at  it. 

His  footsteps  had  made  no  sound  on  the  soft  earth,  he 
came  upon  her  before  she  discovered  him. 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  be  much  surprised  to  see  me,"  he 
said  ;  "  you  have  waited  here  to  the  last  hour  of  your  allotted 
time.  You  might  have  gone  days  ago,  and  then  I  should 
not  have  seen  you  at  all ;  but  you  have  waited.  It  looks 
quite  as  if  you  expected  me  to  come,  as  if  you  wished  to  give 
me  one  more  final  thrust  before  you  joined  your  excellent 
husband.  Of  course  I  deserve  nothing  better." 


EAST   ANGELS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"YES,  I  have  waited.  But  it  was  because  I  have  been 
trying  to — to  arrange  something,"  Margaret  answered. 

'She  had  taken  her  hand  from  the  old  pillar,  she  stood  erect 
now,  with  the  white  shawl  she  was  wearing  folded  closely 
round  her. 

"  Something  nicely  calculated  to  make  me  suffer  more,  I 
suppose ;  I  haven't  been  punished  enough  for  speaking  as  I 
did." 

"  It  wasn't  anything  that  concerned  you." 

"That  everlasting  self-possession  of  yours,  Margaret? 
Here  I  come  upon  you  suddenly ;  you're  not  a  hard-hearted 
woman  at  all,  and  yet,  thanks  to  that,  you  can  receive  me 
without  a  change  of  expression,  you  can  see  all  my  trouble 
and  grief,  and  talk  to  me  about  *  arrangements !' " 

"  You  asked  me — you  accused  me — "  Her  calmness  was 
not  as  perfect  as  he  had  represented  it. 

"What  are  the  arrangements?"  he  said,  abruptly. 

"Do  you  think  we  had  better  discuss  them?" 

"  We  will  discuss  everything  that  concerns  you.  But 
don't  be  supposing  I  haven't  heard;  I  have  seen  Aunt  Ka- 
trina,  and  forced  it  out  of  her,  I  know  you  intend  to  go 
back  to  Lanse — intend  to  go  to-morrow." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  You  don't  deny  it  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  deny  it." 

"  And  the  arrangements  ?" 

"  I — I  had  thought  of  living  here." 

"  Here,  at  East  Angels,  you  mean  ?  Oh,  you  wish  to  bring 
him  here?  An  excellent  idea;  Aunt  Katrina  would  not  be 
separated  longer  from  her  dear  boy,  and  Lanse  and  his  reti 
nue  would  fit  in  nicely  among  all  the  comforts  and  luxuries 
we  have  between  us  collected  here.  Yes;  I  see." 

There  was  a  quiver  for  an  instant  in  Margaret's  throat, 
though  her  face  did  not  alter.  "  My  only  thought  was  that 


540  EAST  ANGELS. 

perhaps  it  would  be  more  of  a  home  for  me,"  she  answered, 
looking  off  over  the  green  open  space  and  the  thicket  be 
yond  it. 

His  hardness  softened  a  little.  "  Of  course  it  would.  You 
surely  cannot  have  had  the  idea  of  living  at  Fernandina?" 

"  That  would  be  as  Lanse  says." 

"You  are  determined  to  go  back  to  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  changed  his  position  so  that  he  could  have  a  better 
view  of  her  face.  "Bring  him  here,  then!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Anything  is  better  than  to  have  you  wandering  about  the 
world,  homeless !" 

"  You  would  let  me  come  and  see  you  now  and  then  ?"  he 
said,  beginning  again.  He  spoke  in  what  he  himself  would 
have  called  a  reasonable  tone.  "  I  could  help  you  in  a  good 
many  ways;  of  course,  in  saying  this,  you  understand  that  I 
agree  to  accept  Lanse — as  well  as  I  can." 

"You  must  never  come." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  ?" 

"  I  mean  it  unalterably." 

"  It's  because  I  spoke  as  I  did — this  is  my  punishment. 
But  if  I  promise  never  to  speak  in  that  way  again  ?" 

"  You  must  not  come." 

"Tell  me  just  what  it  is  you  intend  to  do — we'll  have 
it  out  now.  Tell  me  the  whole,  you  needn't  spare." 

"  After  to-day,  I  wish — I  intend — never  to  see  you  again 
— that  is,  alone.  It  is  hard  that  you  should  make  me  speak 
it  out  in  this  way." 

"  Oh  —  make ;  you  are  capable  of  saying  whatever  you 
please  without  being  made;  whatever  will  do  me  the  most 
good  and  hurt  me  the  most — the  two  are  synonymous  in 
your  opinion — that  is  what  you  delight  in." 

She  had  turned  away  with  bent  head. 

"You  are  not  as  strong  as  you  thought  you  were;  it 
does  hurt  you,  Margaret,  after  all,  to  say  such  things  to 
me." 

There  was  an  old  stone  seat,  with  a  high  back,  near  the 
pillar;  she  sank  down  upon  it. 

"What  you  wish  is  to  have  me  leave  you — tire  you  and 
vex  you  no  more.  But  I  cannot  go  quite  yet.  I  tell  you 


EAST  ANGELS.  541 

that  I  will  accept  Lanse,  as  well  as  I  can ;  I  promise  never 
again  to  open  my  lips  as  I  did  that  last  day ;  and  still  you 
are  going  to  shut  your  door  in  my  face,  and  keep  it  shut; 
and  you  assure  me'  it  is  forever.  This  is  unreasonable — a 
woman's  unreason.  Why  shouldn't  I  come  occasionally  ? — 
what  are  you  afraid  of?  You  will  be  surrounded  by  all  your 
safeguards,  your  husband  at  the  head.  But  your  own  will  is 
a  safeguard  no  human  power  could  break ;  you  are  unassail 
able,  taken  quite  by  yourself,  Mrs.  Lansing  Harold." 

She  did  not  look  up. 

"  And  you  wouldn't  be  able,  either,  to  carry  it  out— any 
such  system  of  blockade,"  he  went  on.  "  Aunt  Katrina  would 
send  for  me ;  leaving  that  aside,  Lanse  himself  would  send ; 
Lanse  doesn't  care  a  straw  what  my  real  opinion  of  him  may 
be,  so  long  as  he  can  get  some  talk,  some  entertainment  out 
of  me,  and  it  will  be  more  than  ever  so  now  that  he  is  per 
manently  laid  up.  And  if  you  should  tell  him  of  my  avowal 
even,  what  would  he  say  ?  '  Of  course  you  know  how  to  take 
rubbish  of  that  sort ' — that  is  what  he  would  say  !  And  he 
would  laugh  delightedly  to  think  of  my  being  caught." 

Still  she  did  not  move. 

He  walked  off  a  few  paces,  then  came  back.  "  And  here, 
again,  Margaret,  even  if  you  should  be  able  to  influence  both 
Aunt  Katrina  and  Lanse  against  me,  do  you  think  that  would 
prevent  my  seeing  you — I  don't  mean  constantly,  of  course, 
but  occasionally  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  should  obey  your  rules 
— even  your  wishes?  Not  the  least  in  the  world  !  I  should 
always  see  you,  now  and  then,  in  some  way.  I  shouldn't 
make  myself  a  public  annoyance  ;  but — I  give  you  warning — 
I  shall  never  lose  sight  of  you  as  long  as  I  breathe,  as  long 
as  I  am  alive." 

She  stirred  at  last,  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Yes,  I  see  yon  are  frightened  ;  you  wish  to  go — escape, 
go  back  to  the" house  and  shut  yourself  up  out  of  my  reach, 
as  you  usually  do.  But  this  time  I'm  merciless,  I  feel  that 
it's  my  last  chance ;  you  cannot  go  (you  needn't  try  to  pass 
me)  until  you  have  told  me  why  it  is  that  you  wish  not  to 
see  me  again,  never  again,  in  spite  of  the  safety,  the  abso 
lute  unapproachableness  of  your  position." 

She  sat  there,  her  eyes  on  his  hard,  insistent  face. 


542  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  Why  do  you  make  me  more  wretched  than  I  am  '?"  she 
asked. 

"  Because  I  can't  help  it !     There  is  a  reason,  then?" 

"  Yes."     She  had  bent  her  head  down  again. 

"  I  thought  so.  And  I  am  prepared  to  hear  it,"  he  went 
on. 

His  voice  had  altered  so  as  he  brought  this  out  that  she 
looked  up.  "  What  is  it  you  expect  to  hear  ?"  she  asked  in 
a  whisper. 

"  It's  a  new  idea,  I  admit — something  that  has  just  come 
to  me;  but  it  explains  everything — your  whole  course,  con 
duct,  which  have  been  such  a  mystery  to  me.  You  love 
Lanse,  you  have  always  loved  him  ;  that  is  the  solution  !  In 
spite  of  the  insult  of  his  long  neglect  of  you,  his  second  de 
sertion,  you  are  glad  to  go  back  to  him ;  there  have  been 
such  cases  of  miserable  infatuation  among  women,  yours  is 
one  of  them.  But  you  do  not  wish  me  to  see  the  process  of 
your  winning  him  over,  or  trying  to ;  so  /  am  to  be  sent 
away." 

She  got  up.  "  And  if  I  should  say  yes  to  this,  acknowl 
edge  it,  that  would  be  the  end  ?  You  would  wish  to  see  me 
no  more  ?" 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Recollect, 
if  you  please,  that  I  love  you ;  with  me,  unfortunately,  it's 
for  life.  You  may  be  weak  enough  —  depraved  enough,  I 
might  almost  call  it — to  adore  Lanse, — do  you  suppose  that 
makes  any  difference  in  my  adoring  you  ?  Do  you  think  it's 
a  matter  of  choice  with  me,  my  caring  for  you  as  I  do  ?  That 
I  enjoy  being  mastered  in  this  way  by  a  feeling  I  can't  over 
come  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  my  life,"  she  said,  abruptly. 

"  I  know  it  already. — How  beautiful  you  look  !" 

"  I  ought  to  look  hideous."  She  walked  about  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  and  finally  stopped,  facing  him,  behind  the  old 
stone  seat. 

"  It  will  make  no  difference  what  you  say,  I  can  tell  you 
that  now,"  he  said,  warningly. 

"  I  think  it  will  make  a  difference.     You  are  not  cruel." 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  I  never  loved  Lanse,"  she  began,  hurriedly.     "  In  one 


EAST  ANGELS.  543 

\vay  it  was  not  my  fault ;  I  was  too  young  to  appreciate 
what  love  meant,  I  was  peculiarly  immature  in  my  feelings — 
I  see  that  now. 

"  When  the  blow  came,  the  blow  of  my  discovering — what 
Lanse  has  already  told  you,  I  was  crushed  by  it, — I  had  nev 
er  known  anything  of  actual  evil. 

"  He  told  me  to  *  take  it  as  a  lady  should.'  I  didn't  know 
what  he  meant. 

"  I  had  no  mother  to  go  to.  I  felt  even  then  that  Aunt 
Katrina  wouldn't  be  kind.  In  the  overthrow  of  everything, 
the  best  I  could  think  of  to  do  was  to  hold  on  to  one  or  two 
ideas  that  were  left — that  seemed  to  me  right,  and  one  of 
these  was  silence ;  I  determined  to  tell  nobody  what  had 
really  happened ;  I  would  be  loyal  to  my  husband,  as  far  as 
I  could  be,  no  matter  what  my  husband  was  to  me. 

"  So  I  went  back  to  Aunt  Katrina  (as  Lanse  preferred). 
And  I  told  nothing. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  I  appeared  cold  enough.  In  the  be 
ginning  there  was  a  good  deal  of  coldness,  though  there  was 
always  suffering  underneath;  but  later  it  wasn't  coldness,  it 
was  the  constant  effort  to  hide — I  had  thought  my  life  diffi 
cult.  But  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  there  was  something  more 
difficult  still.  I  had  not  loved  Lanse — no ;  but  now  I  was 
finding  out  what  love  meant,  for — for  I  began  to  love — you." 

Winthrop  started,  the  color  rushed  up  and  covered  his 
face  in  a  flood ;  in  his  eyes  shone  the  transforming  light  of 
a  happiness  which  had  never  been  there  before.  For  this 
man,  in  spite  of  his  successes,  had  never  attained  much  posi 
tive  happiness  for  himself  in  life ;  Lanse,  Lucian,  many  an 
other  idler,  attained  more.  Happiness  is  an  inconsistent 
goddess,  by  no  means  has  she  always  a  crown  for  strenuous 
effort ;  very  often  she  seems  to  dwell  longest  with  those  who 
do  not  think  beyond  the  morrow ;  there  she  sits  and  basks. 
However,  she  had  corne  to  Winthrop  now,  and  royally,  bring 
ing  him  that  which  he  cared  the  most  for.  He  thanked  her 
by  his  glowing  face,  his  ardent  eyes. 

"  It's  nothing  to  be  glad  about,"  Margaret  had  said,  quick 
ly,  when  she  saw  the  change  in  his  face.  "  I  tell  you  because 
I  cannot  endure  that  you  should  believe  of  me  what  you 
thought — about  Lanse.  And  also  because  I  ana  weak — yes, 


544  EAST  ANGELS. 

I  confess  it.  Yon  said  you  intended  to  see  me,  follow  me ; 
but  now  that  you  know  how  it  is  with  me,  you  won't  do  that." 

Winthrop's  face  remained  triumphant.  "  Odd  reasoning, 
Margaret." 

"  The  best  reasoning.  So  long  as  it  was  only  you,  you 
could  do  as  you  pleased.  But  now  that  you  know  that — 
that  others  will  suffer  too —  She  paused.  "  I  am  sure  I 
have  not  trusted  you  in  vain  ?"  she  said,  appealingly. 

But  he  shook  his  head,  the  triumph  still  animated  him. 
"  You  can  trust  me  in  one  way  ;  I  won't  take  advantage,  that 
is,  not  now.  But  you  needn't  try  to  make  me  think,  Mar 
garet,  that  it's  not  something  to  be  glad  about — to  know  that 
you  care  for  me."  He  laughed  a  little  from  his  sheer  satis 
faction  ;  then,  in  his  old  way,  he  put  his  hands  compactly 
down  in  the  pockets  of  his  coat,  and  stood  there  looking  at 
her. 

"  Is  it  anything  to  be  glad  about — my  wretchedness?"  she 
asked,  strengthening  herself  for  the  contest. 

"  It  makes  you  wretched  ?     Strange  !" 

"  I  am  so  wretched — I  have  been  wretched  so  long — that 
only  my  firm  belief  that  my  Creator  knows  best  has  enabled 
me  to  live  on,  has  kept  me  from  ending  it." 

"  Why  should  you  be  more  unhappy  than  I  am  ?  Noth 
ing  could  make  me  end  my  life  now." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence. 

"  If  you  look  at  me  in  that  way — "  Winthrop  began. 

She  left  her  place.  He  stood  where  he  was,  watching  her, 
but  he  was  not  paying  much  heed  to  what  she  was  saying, 
now.  He  had  the  great  fact,  man-like,  he  was  enjoying  it ; 
it  was  enough  for  the  present — after  all  these  years. 

She  seemed  to  see  how  little  impression  she  had  made. 
She  came  back  to  the  old  stone  a  second  time  to  complete 
her  story.  "  I  tried  so  hard — I  was  so  glad  when  I  saw  how 
you  disliked  me,"  she  began. 

"  It  wasn't  dislike." 

"  I  thought  it  was ;  and  I  was  miserably  glad.  What  did 
I  take  charge  of  Garda  for  but  because  I  thought  you  loved 
her?  That  should  be  my  penance,  she  should  be  like  my 
own  sister,  and  I  would  do  everything  that  I  possibly  could 
for  her,  for  her  sake  and  yours.  She  was  so  very  beautiful — " 


EAST  ANGELS.  545 

Tie  interposed  here.  "  Yes,  she  was  beautiful '  but  beau 
tiful  for  everybody.  Your  beauty  is  dearer,  because  it  is.  kept, 
in  its  fullest  sweetness,  for  the  man  you  love.'' 

But  no  blush  rose  in  her  face,  she  was  too  unhappy  for 
that ;  she  was  absorbed,  too,  in  trying  to  reach  him,  to  touch 
him,  so  that  he  would  see  what  must  be,  as  she  saw  it.  "I 
did  all  I  could  for  her,"  she  went  on,  earnestly — "  you  know 
I  did  ;  I  tried  to  influence  her,  I  tried  to  love  her ;  and  I  did 
love  her.  I  was  sure,  too,  that  she  cared  for  you — •" 

"  It  isn't  everybody,  you  must  remember,  that  has  your 
opinion  of  me,"  interrupted  her  listener,  delightedly. 

"But  she  herself  had  told  me — Garda  had  told  me  that 
she —  However,  I  begin  to  think  that  I  have  never  compre 
hended  Garda." 

"Don't  try." 

"  I  love  her  all  the  same.  That  afternoon  when  she  was 
ofi  her  way  to  Madam  Giron's  to  see  Lucian,  and  I  took  her 
place,  it  seemed  to  me  that  day  that  an  opportunity  had  been 
given  to  me  to  complete  my  penance  to  the  full,  and  crush 
out  my  own  miserable  folly.  I  could  save  her  in  your  eyes, 
and  I  could  lose  myself ;  for,  after  that,  you  could  have;  of 
course,  only  contempt  for  me.  I  believed  that  you  loved  her, 
I  didn't  see  how  you  could  help  it  (I  don't  see  very  well 
even  now).  And  I  believed,  too,  that  under  a1!!  her  fancies, 
her  real  affection  was  yours ;  or  would  come  back  to  you." 

"  All  wrong,  Margaret,  the  whole  of  it.  Overstrained,  ex 
aggerated." 

"  It  may  be  so,  I  was  very  unhappy,  I  had  brooded  over 
everything  so  long.  Next,  Lanse  came  back.  And  that  was 
a  godsend." 

"  Godsend  !"  said  Winthrop,  his  face  darkening. 

"  Yes.     It  took  me  away  from  you." 

"  To  him." 

"  You  have  never  understood — I  was  only  the  house-keeper 
— he  wished  to  be  made  comfortable,  that  was  all.  It  was 
a  great  deal  better  for  me  there." 

"  Was  it,  indeed ;  you  looked  so  well  and  happy  all  that 
time !"  His  joyousness  was  gone  now ;  anger  had  come 
again  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  could  not  be  happy,  how  could  I  be  ?  But  at  least  I 
35 


546  EAST  ANGELS. 

was  safe.  Then  he  left  me  that  second  time.  And  you  were 
there ;  that  was  the  hardest  of  all." 

"You  bore  it  well !  I  remember  I  found  it  impossible  to 
get  a  word  with  you.  The  truth  is,  Margaret,  I  have  never 
known  you  to  falter,  you  are  not  faltering  in  the  least  even 
now.  I  can't  quite  believe,  therefore,  that  you  care  for  me 
as  you  say  you  do;  you  certainly  don't  care  as  I  care  for 
you,  perhaps  you  can't.  But  the  little  you  do  give  me  is 
precious ;  for  even  that,  small  as  it  is,  will  keep  you  from 
going  back  to  Lanse  Harold." 

"Keep  me  from  going  back?  What  do  you  suppose  I 
have  told  you  this  for?  Don't  you  see  that  it  is  exactly  this 
— my  feeling  for  you — that  sends  me,  drives  me  back  to  him  ? 
On  what  plea,  now,  could  I  refuse  to  go  ?  The  pretense  of 
unhappiness,  of  having  been  wronged  ?"  She  paused.  Then 
rushed  on  again.  "  The  law — of  separation,  I  mean — is  found 
ed  upon  the  idea  that  a  wife  is  outraged,  insulted,  by  her 
husband's  desertion  ;  but  in  my  case  Lanse's  entire  indiffer 
ence  to  me,  his  estrangement  —  these  have  been  the  most 
precious  possessions  I  have  had !  If  at  any  time  since  al 
most  the  first  moment  I  met  you  he  had  come  back  and 
asked  for  reconciliation,  promised  to  be  after  that  the  most 
faithful  of  husbands,  what  would  have  become  of  me  ?  what 
should  I  have  said?  But  he  did  not  ask — he  does  not  now  ; 
I  can  only  be  profoundly  grateful." 

u  Yes,  compare  yourself  with  a  man  of  that  sort — do ;  it's 
so  just  I" 

"  It  is  perfectly  just.  I  am  a  woman,  surrounded  by  all  a 
woman's  cowardice  and  nervousness  and  fear  of  being  talked 
about ;  and  he  is  a  man,  and  not  afraid ;  but  at  heart — at 
heart — how  much  better  am  I  than  he  ?  You  do  not  know — " 
She  stopped.  "  I  consider  it  a  great  part  of  my  offense 
against  my  husband  that  I  have  never  loved  him,"  she  added. 

"  The  old  story  !  Go  on  now  and  tell  me  that  if  you  had 
loved  him,  he  himself  would  have  been  better." 

"  No,  that  I  cannot  tell  yon ;  even  if  I  had  cared  for  him, 
I  might  have  had  no  influence."  She  spoke  with  humility. 

"  Lanse  knew  perfectly  that  I  did  not  love  him,  he  knew 
it  when  I  didn't,"  she  went  on.  "  And  I  really  think — yes, 
I  must  say  it — that  if  I  had  cared  for  him  even  slightly,  he 


EAST  ANGELS.  547 

would  have  been  more  guarded,  would  have  concealed  more, 
spared  me  more;  in  little  things,  Lanse  is  kind.  But  he 
knew  that  I  shouldn't  suffer,  in  that  way  at  least.  And  it 
was  quite  true ;  my  real  suffering — the  worst  suffering — has 
not  corne  from  him  at  all ;  it  has  come  from  you.  At  first 
I  had  plans — I  was  too  young  to  give  up  all  hope  of  some 
thing  brighter  some  time.  But  my  plans  soon  came  to  an 
end ;  when  I  knew — discovered — that  I  was  beginning  to 
care  for  you,  all  my  hope  turned  to  keeping  in  the  one 
straight  track  that  lay  before  me.  I  did  not  think  I  should 
fail—" 

"  I  can  well  believe  that !"  he  interrupted. 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  harsh  to  me !  you  do  not  know —  You 
think  my  will  is  strong.  But  oh  !  it  isn't — it  isn't.  When 
Lanse  left  me  that  second  time,  and  you  were  there  with  me, 
I  knew  then  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  as  far 
away  from  you  as  possible,  and  to  go  instantly  ;  anything 
less,  no  matter  how  I  should  disguise  it,  would  be  staying 
because  I  wished  to  stay.  And  I  did  try  to  go ;  I  would  not 
enter  that  hotel  when  I  saw  you  on  the  shore — I  went  back 
to  the  empty  house.  I  dared  not  stay  then.  I  will  not 
now." 

"You  do  well  to  change  the  terms,"  he  answered,  with 
unsparing  bitterness,  "  it's  nothing  but  will  to-day,  whatever 
it  may  once  have  been.  1  don't  believe  about  your  not  dar 
ing  ;  I  don't,  in  fact,  believe — that  is,  fully — anything  you 
have  said." 

"  Why,  then,  should  I  stay  here  talking  longer  ?"  She  left 
the  place  and  entered  the  orange  grove,  which  she  was 
obliged  to  pass  through  on  her  way  to  the  house. 

But  he  overtook  her,  he  stepped  in  front  and  barred  the 
way.  "  You  have  been  remarkably  skilful.  I  demanded 
an  explanation,  I  was  evidently  going  to  make  trouble.  So 
you  gave  me  this  one:  you  said  that  you  had,  unfortunately 
for  yourself,  begun  to  love  me,  that  was  the  explanation  of 
everything;  you  threw  me  this  to  stop  me,  like  a  bone  to  a 
dog,  so  that  you  could  get  comfortably  away.  But  I  luive 
this  to  tell  you:  if  you  had  really  loved  me,  you  couldn't 
have  argued  quite  so  well!  And  you  couldn't  go  now,  ci 
ther,  so  self-complacently,  leaving  me  here  in  my  pain." 


548  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  So  be  it,"  she  said.  She  looked  through  the  blossoming 
aisles  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  as  if  in  search  of  some  rescuer, 
some  one. 

"  But  what  does  a  woman  like  you  know  of  love,  after  all 
— real  love  ?"  he  went  on,  with  angry  scorn.  "  As  a  general 
thing,  the  better  she  is,  the  less  she  knows.  And  I  have 
never  denied  that  you  were  good,  Margaret." 

She  moved  to  pass  him. 

"  Not  yet.  You  have  reasoned  the  whole  case  out  too 
well,  there  was  rather  too  much  reason ;  a  lawyer  couldn't 
have  done  it  better." 

"I  have  had  time  to  think  of  the  reasons.  How  often 
each  day  do  you  suppose  I  have  gone  over  everything — over 
and  over?  And  how  many  days  have  there  been  in  these 
long  years  ?" 

**  It  isn't  the  time.     It's  your  nature." 

"  Very  well.     It's  my  nature." 

"But  you  needn't  suppose  that  your  having  that  nature 
will  stop  me,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  violence  of  tone  roused 
by  her  agreement  with  these  accusations.  "  You  have  con 
fessed  to  some  sort  of  liking  for  me,  I  shall  take  advantage 
of  it  as  far  as  it  goes  (not  far,  I  fear)  ;  I  shall  make  it  serve 
as  the  foundation  of  all  I  shall  constantly  attempt  to  do." 

Her  arms  dropped  by  her  sides.  "  Constantly  ?  I  believe 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  cruel  as  a  man  when  he  pre 
tends  to  care  for  you."  She  moved  off  a  step  or  two.  "  I 
do  not  love  you,  you  say  ?  I  adore  you.  From  almost  the 
first  day  I  saw  you — yes,  even  from  then.  It  is  the  one  love 
of  my  life,  and  remember  I  am  not  a  girl,  it's  a  woman  who 
tells  you  this — to  her  misery.  And  it  is  everything  about 
you  that  I  love — that  makes  it  harder ;  not  only  what  you 
say  and  how  you  say  it,  what  you  think  and  do,  but  what 
you  are — oh!  what  you  are  in  everything.  The  way  you 
look  at  me,  the  tone  of  your  voice,  the  turn  of  your  head, 
your  eyes,  your  hands — I  love  them,  I  love  them  all.  I  suf 
fer  every  moment,  it  has  been  so  for  years.  I  am  so  miserable 
away  from  you,  so  desperate  and  lonely  !  And  yet  when  I 
am  with  you,  that  is  harder.  Whichever  way  I  turn,  there 
is  nothing  but  pain,  it  is  so  torturing  that  I  wonder  how  I 
can  have  lived  !  Yet  would  I  give  it  up  ?  Never." 


EAST  ANGELS.  549 

The  splendor  of  her  eyes,  as  she  poured  forth  these  words, 
her  rapt  expression,  the  slight  figure,  erect  and  tense  —  he 
could  no  more  have  dared  to  touch  her  then  than  he  could 
have  touched  a  shining  seraph  that  had  lighted  for  an  instant 
in  his  path. 

Her  eyes  suddenly  changed.  "  When  I  have  hurt  you," 
she  went  on,  "  it  has  been  so  hard  to  do  it — so  hard  !"  She 
was  the  woman  now ;  a  mist  had  suffused  the  blue. 

He  came  towards  her,  he  sank  down  at  her  feet.  "  I  am 
not  worthy,"  he  murmured,  in  real  self-abasement. 

"  No,  you  are  not.     But — I  love  you." 

He  sprang  up.  "  I  will  be  worthy.  You  shall  do  all  you 
think  right,  and  I — will  help  you." 

"  Yes,  help  me  by  leaving  me." 

"  For  the  present — I  will  go." 

"  For  always." 

"  Margaret,  do  not  be  hard.     And  now,  when  I  know — " 

"You  do  believe  me,  then  ?"  she  interrupted,  with  winning 
sweetness. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you  !  It  makes  me  tremble  to  think  what 
it  would  be  if  we  were  married ;  they  say  people  do  not  die 
of  joy." 

She  came  out  of  her  trance.  Her  face  changed,  appre 
hension  returned — the  old  fear  and  pain.  She  rallied  her 
sinking  courage.  "  We  will  not  talk  of  things  that  do  not 
concern  us,"  she  said,  gently.  "All  my  life  —  that  is,  the 
peace  of  it — is  in  your  power,  Evert,  now  that  you  know  the 
truth  about  me.  But  I  am  sure  I  have  not  put  faith  in  you 
in  vain." 

"  Don't  you  remember  saying  to  me  '  Do  you  wish  me  to 
die  without  ever  having  been  my  full  self  once  ?'  So  now  I 
say  to  you,  Margaret,  do  you  wish  to  die  without  ever  having 
lived  ?  You  have  never  lived  yet  with  anything  like  a  full 
completeness.  I  am  not  a  bad  man,  I  declare  it  to  you,  and 
you  are  the  most  unselfish  of  women ;  you  have  a  husband 
who  has  no  claim  upon  you,  either  in  right  or  law ;  Mar 
garet,  let  us  break  that  false  tie.  And  then  ! — see,  I  do  not 
move  a  step  nearer.  But  I  put  it  before  you — I  plead — " 

"  And  do  you  think  I  have  not  felt  the  temptation  too  ?" 
she  murmured,  looking  at  him.  "  WThen  Lanse  left  me,  over 


550  EAST  ANGELS. 

there  on  the  river,  don't  you  remember  that  I  went  down  on 
my  knees?  It  was  the  beating  of  my  heart  at  the  thought 
of  how  easily  after  that  I  could  be  freed — freed,  I  mean,\y 
law — that  was  what  I  was  trying  to  pray  down.  To  be  free 
to  think  of  you,  though  you  should  never  know  it,  even  that 
would  have  been  like  a  new  life  to  me." 

"  Take  it  now,"  said  Winthrop.     He  grasped  her  hand. 

But  she  drew  it  from  him.  "  Surely  you  know  what  I  be 
lieve,  what  all  this  means  to  me — that  for  such  mistakes  as  a 
marriage  like  mine  there  is,  on  this  earth  at  least,  no  remedy." 

"  We'll  make  a  remedy." 

Again  she  strengthened  herself  against  him.  "Do  you 
think  that  a  separation — I  will  use  plain  words,  a  divorce — 
is  right  when  it  is  obtained,  no  matter  what  the  outside  pre 
text,  to  enable  two  persons  who  have  loved  each  other  un 
lawfully  to  marry?" 

"Unlawfully — you  make  me  rage!  Lanse  is  the  unlaw 
ful  one." 

"  That  doesn't  excuse  me." 

"Don't  put  the  word  excuse  anywhere  near  yourself  when 
you  are  talking  of  Lanse;  I  won't  bear  it.  And  nothing  is 
wrong  that  we  cannot  possibly  help,  Margaret;  any  one 
would  tell  you  that.  If  it  is  something  beyond  .our"  wills, 
we  are  powerless." 

"Against  my  love  for  you  I  may  be  powerless — I  am. 
But  not  against  the  indulgence  of  it." 

"You  are  too  strong,"  he  began,  "/couldn't  pretend — " 
then  he  saw  how  she  was  trembling. 

From  head  to  foot  a  quiver  had  seized  her,  the  lovely 
shoulders,  the  long  lithe  length  of  limb  which  gave  her  the 
step  he  had  always  admired  so  much,  the  little  hands,  though 
she  had  folded  them  closely  as  if  endeavoring  to  stop  it,  even 
the  lips  with  their  sweet  curves — the  tremor  had  taken  them 
all  from  her  control ;  she  stood  there  helpless  before  him. 

"I  can't  reason,  Margaret,  and  I  won't;  in  this  case  rea 
son's  wrong,  and  you're  wrong.  Yon  love  me — that  I  know. 
And  the  power  for  good  of  such  a  love  as  yours — you  mag 
nificent  woman,  not  afraid  to  tell  it — that  power  shall  not  be 
wasted  and  lost.  Have  you  I  will !"  It  was  more  than  a 
touch  now ;  he  held  her  white  wrists  with  a  grasp  like  iron, 


EAST  ANGELS.  551 

and  drew  her  towards  him.  "  I  hold  you  so,  but  it  won't  be 
for  long.  In  reality  I  am  at  your  feet,"  he  said. 

She  had  not  struggled,  she  made  no  effort  to  free  herself. 
But  her  eyes  met  his,  full  of  an  indomitable  refusal.  "  I 
shall  never  yield,"  she  murmured. 

Thus  they  stood  for  a  moment,  the  two  wills  grappled  in 
a  mute  contest. 

Then  he  let  her  hands  drop. 

"  Useless  !"  she  said,  triumphing  sadly. 

"  Though  you  love  me." 

"Though  I  love  you." 

"It's  enough  to  make  a  man  curse  goodness,  Margaret; 
remember  that." 

"  No,  no." 

"  Oh,  these  good  people  !"  He  threw  his  arm  out  uncon 
sciously  with  a  force  that  would  have  laid  prostrate  any  one 
within  its  reach.  "  You  are  an  exception — you  are  going  to 
suffer ;  but  generally  these  good  people,  who  are  so  hard  in 
their  judgment  of  such  things, — they  have  never  suffered 
themselves  in  the  least  from  any  of  this  pain  ;  they  have  had 
all  they  wish — in  the  way  of  love  and  home,  and  yet  they  are 
always  the  hardest  upon  those  who,  like  me,  like  you,  have 
nothing — who  are  parched  and  lonely  and  starved.  They 
would  never  do  so — oh  no !  they  are  too  good.  All  I  can 
say  is,  let  them  try  it!  Margaret" — here  he  came  back  to 
her — "  think  of  the  dreariness  of  it ;  leaving  everything  else 
aside,  just  think  of  that.  We  are  excited  now ;  but,  when 
this  is  over,,  think  of  the  long  days  and  years  without  any 
thing  to  brighten  them,  anything  we  really  care  for.  That 
breaks  down  the  best  courage  at  last,  to  have  nothing  one 
really  cares  for." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  I  could  make  you  so  happy  !"  he  pleaded. 

Her  face  remained  unmoved. 

"  I  long  for  you  so !"  he  went  on ;  "  without  you,  I  don't 
know  where  to  turn  or  what  to  do."  He  said  it  as  simply 
as  a  boy. 

This  overcame  her ;  she  left  him,  and  hurried  through  the 
grove  on  her  way  to  the  house,  he  could  hear  her  sob  as  she 
went. 


552  EAST  ANGELS. 

Dr.  Kirby's  figure  had  appeared  at  the  end  of  one  of  the 
orange  aisles;  when  he  saw  Margaret  hurrying  onward,  he 
hastened  his  steps.  Winthrop  had  now  overtaken  her,  her 
foot  had  slipped  and  he  had  caught  her.  Both  her  hands 
were  over  her  face,  her  strength  was  gone. 

The  Doctor  came  panting  up.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Harold — " 
he  began. 

But  she  seemed  to  hear  nothing. 

The  Doctor  put  his  hand  on  her  pulse.  "  Will  you  go  to  the 
house  for  help  to  carry  her  in  ?"  he  whispered.  "  Or  shall  I  ?" 

"  I  can  carry  her  myself,"  said  Winthrop.  He  lifted  her. 
Unconsciousness  had  come  upon  her,  her  head  with  the  closed 
eyes,  her  fair  cheek,  the  soft  mass  of  her  hair  lay  against  his 
shoulder. 

The  Doctor  went  on  with  them  for  some  distance ;  he  was 
not  sure  that  Winthrop's  strength  would  hold  out. 

But  Winthrop's  strength  appeared  to  be  perfect. 

"  I  will  hurry  forward  then,  and  warn  them,"  said  the  Doc 
tor.  And  he  set  off  at  a  round  pace. 

Winthrop  walked  steadily ;  at  last  he  reached  the  end  of 
the  white-blooming  fragrant  aisles,  the  path  entered  a  thicket 
that  lay  beyond. 

The  fresher  unperfumed  air  brought  Margaret  to  herself. 
She  stirred,  then  her  eyes  opened ;  they  rested  uncompre- 
hendingly  on  his  face. 

Beyond  this  thicket  lay  the  garden,  where  they  would  be 
in  full  view  ;  he  was  human,  and  he  stopped.  "  You  fainted. 
The  perfume  of  the  grove,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  explaining. 

Then  everything  came  back  to  her,  he  could  see  remem 
brance  dawn  in  her  eyes,  her  fear  return. 

She  tried  to  put  her  hand  up.     But  it  fell  lifelessly  back. 

This  sign  of  weakness  struck  him  to  the  heart, — what  if 
she  should  die !  Women  so  slight  in  frame,  and  with  that 
fair,  pure  whiteness  like  the  inside  of  a  sea-shell,  were  often 
strangely,  inexplicably  delicate. 

Her  eyes  had  closed  again.  He  held  her  closely  ;  but  now, 
save  for  the  holding,  he  would  not  touch  her.  For  it  seemed 
to  him  that  if  he  should  allow  himself  to  yield  to  his  long 
ing  wish  and  put  his  lips  down  upon  hers,  she  might  die 
there,  after  a  moment,  in  his  arms.  It  would  be  taking  ad- 


EAST  ANGELS.  553 

vantage;  in  her  present  state  of  physical  weakness  her  will 
might  not  be  able  to  help  her  as  it  had  helped  her  before ; 
she  was  powerless  to  resist,  and  she  loved  him, — oh  yes,  he 
knew  it  fully  now,  she  loved  him.  But  as  soon  as  she  should 
become  conscious  that  she  had  yielded,  then  the  reaction 
would  come.  Between  her  love  and  her  sense  of  duty,  this 
proud  will  of  hers  had  held  the  balance.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  if  he  should  break  down  by  force  that  balance,  her  life 
might  go  as  well. 

He  went  on  therefore,  he  bore  her  through  the  garden 
towards  the  house.  Her  face  in  its  stillness  had  now  an  ex 
pression  that  frightened  him,  it  was  like  the  lassitude  of  a 
person  who  has  struggled  to  the  utmost,  and  then  given  up. 

The  Doctor  and  Celestine  were  waiting  at  the  lower  door. 

Winthrop  refused  their  aid,  he  carried  Margaret  up  the 
stairs  to  her  own  room,  and  laid  her  down  upon  the  bed. 

"  I  will  wait  below,  Doctor.  Come  and  tell  me,  please, 
what  you  make  out." 

The  Doctor  had  divined  a  good  deal  during  this  last  quarter 
of  an  hour,  in  this  stricken  woman,  this  abruptly  speaking 
man,  he  felt  the  close  presence  of  something  he  fully  believed 
in,  old  though  he  was — overwhelming  love;  placed  as  they 
were,  it  could  bring  only  unhappiness.  He  had  no  confidence 
whatever  in  Winthrop,  simply  because  he  was  a  man.  In 
such  situations  men  were  selfish  (he  himself  should  have  been 
no  better) ;  of  course  at  the  time  they  did  not  call  it  selfish 
ness,  they  called  it  devotion.  But  in  Margaret  his  confidence 
was  absolute.  And  it  was  with  a  deep,  tender  pity  for  her, 
for  all  she  had  still  to  go  through,  that  he  now  bent  over  her. 

Winthrop  had  gone  down-stairs ;  he  paced  to  and  fro  in 
the  stone-flagged  hall  below.  The  door  stood  open,  the  deep 
soft  blue  of  the  Florida  sky  filled  the  square  frame.  "  If 
only  she  doesn't  die !"  This  was  the  paralyzing  dread  that 
held  him  like  a  suffocation.  He  kept  thinking  how  like  a 
dead  person  she  had  looked  as  he  laid  her  down.  "  If  she 
comes  to, — revives,  I  will  go  away,  and  stay  away."  In  his 
fear,  he  could  consent  to  anything. 

The  Doctor  came  down  after  a  while.  They  were  two 
men  together,  so  their  words  were  few  ;  they  were  just 
enough  to  answer  the  purpose.  "  I  think  I  can  assure  you. 


554  EAST  ANGELS. 

that  she  will  come  out  of  it  safely,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  She 
seems  unaccountably  weak,  she  will  have  to  keep  her  bed  for 
a  while;  but  I  am  almost  positive  that  it  is  not  going  to  be 
one  of  those  long  illnesses  which  sometimes  follow  attacks 
of  this  sort." 

"  But  at  best  it's  rather  serious,  isn't  it  ?"  Winthrop  asked. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him.     "  Yes,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

"If  you  would  let  me  know  from  time  to  time?  This  is 
my  New  York  address.  It  will  be  more  satisfactory  to  hear 
directly  from  you.  You  can  tell  her  I  have  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"  Yes ;  back  to  New  York." 

_  "Oh,"  said  Reginald  Kirby.     Then,  "  Ah,"  he  added,  this 
time  with  the  accepting  falling  inflection. 

Winthrop  was  behaving  much  better  than  he  had  thought 
he  would.  All  the  same,  it  was  now  the  part  of  every  one 
to  speed  him  on  his  way.  "  I  will  write  with  great  regular 
ity,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand  in  good-by.  "I  will  write 
three  times  a  week,"  he  added,  with  heartiness;  he  wanted 
to  do  something  for  the  man,  and  this  was  all  he  could  do. 

He  returned  to  his  patient.  Wintlirop  went  out  to  order 
the  horses. 

He  came  back  while  the  negroes  were  making  ready.  The 
lower  door  still  stood  open,  the  house  was  very  quiet;  he 
stole  up-stairs  and  listened  for  a  moment  near  Margaret's 
room.  There  was  no  sound  within  ;  he  had  the  man's  usu 
al  fear — non-comprehension — of  a  woman's  illness.  "  Why 
are  they  so  quiet  in  there?"  he  thought;  "why  don't  they 
speak?  What  are  they  doing  to  her?" 

But  there  was  a  very  good  reason  for  the  stillness ;  the 
Doctor  had  given  Margaret  a  powerful  sedative,  and  he  and 
Celestine  were  waiting  for  the  full  effect. 

Winthrop  at  length  left  the  door ;  he  realized  that  this 
was  not  a  good  beginning  in  the  carrying  out  of  his  promise 
to  himself. 

As  he  passed  down  the  hall  on  his  way  to  the  stairs  he 
happened  to  have  a  glimpse  into  a  room  whose  door  stood 
partly  open ;  here,  ranged  in  order,  locked  and  ready,  were 
Margaret's  trunks,  prepared  for  the  journey  to  Fernandina. 

Well,  if  he  was  to  get  away  at  all,  he  must  go  at  once ! 


EAST  ANGELS.  555 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Two  weeks  passed  before  the  Doctor  would  allow  Marga 
ret  to  begin  her  night  without  an  opiate,  which  should  numb 
her  constant  weariness  into  some  semblance  of  rest.  During 
this  time  he  himself  did  not  leave  East  Angels. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  third  week  the  pale  woman  in  the 
darkened  room  began  to  recover  some  vitality ;  she  spoke  to 
them,  she  asked  to  have  the  curtains  drawn  aside ;  she  re 
fused  their  opiates,  even  the  mildest.  The  Doctor,  relieved, 
went  up  to  Gracias  to  see  his  other  patients. 

That  night,  about  one  o'clock,  Margaret  spoke.  "  Celes- 
tine?" 

A  tall  figure  appeared  from  a  dark  corner. 

"I  told^you  not  to  sit  up  to-night;  I  feel  perfectly  well." 

"There's  a  lounge  here,  Miss  Margaret.  I  can  lay  down 
nice  as  can  be." 

"  No,  you  are  not  to  stay ;  I  do  not  wish  it." 

Celestine  demurred  ;  but  as  Margaret  held  to  her  point, 
she  yielded  finally,  and  went  out.  Some  minutes  after  the 
door  had  closed,  with  a  slow  effort  Margaret  raised  herself. 
Then  she  sat  resting  for  a  while  on  the  edge  of  her  bed. 
Her  hair,  braided  by  Celestine  in  two  long  plaits  whose  soft 
ends  curled,  gave  her  the  look  of  a  school-girl ;  but  the  face 
was  very  far  from  that  of  a  school-girl,  in  the  faint  light  of 
the  night-lamp  the  large  sad  eyes  and  parted  lips  were  those 
of  a  woman.  She  rose  to  her  feet  at  last,  feet  fair  on  the 
dark  carpet,  her  long  white  draperies,  bordered  with  lace, 
clung  about  her.  With  a  step  that  still  betrayed  her  weak 
ness,  she  crossed  the  room  to  a  desk,  unlocked  it,  and  took 
something  out, — a  little  picture  in  a  slender  gilt  frame.  She 
stood  looking  at  this  for  a  moment,  then  she  sank  down  be 
side  the  lounge,  resting  her  arm  and  head  upon  it,  and  hold 
ing  her  poor  treasure  to  her  heart.  She  held  it  closely,  the 
sharp  edge  of  the  frame  made  a  deep  dent  there.  She  was 
glad  that  it  hurt  her,  that  it  bruised  the  white  flesh  and  left 


556  EAST  ANGELS. 

a  pain.  At  first  her  eyes  remained  dry.  Then  her  wretch 
edness  overcame  her,  and  she  began  to  cry  ;  being  a  woman, 
she  must  cry.  Her  life  stretched  out  before  her, — if  only 
she  were  old !  But  she  might  live  forty  years  more — forty 
years !  "  And  I  have  sent  him  away  from  me.  Oh,  how  can 
I  bear  it!" — this  was  what  she  was  saying  to  herself  again 
and  again. 

If  the  man  whose  picture  she  held  upon  her  heart  could 
have  heard  the  words  she  spoke  to  him  that  night — the  un 
speakable  tenderness  of  her  love  for  him,  the  strength,  the 
unconscious  violence  almost,  of  its  sweet  overwhelming  tide 
— no  bolts,  no  bars,  no  promises  even,  could  have  kept  him 
from  her. 

But  he  could  not  hear.  Only  that  Unseen  Presence  who 
knows  all  our  secrets,  our  pitiful,  aching  secrets — only  this 
Counsellor  heard  Margaret  that  night.  This  silent  Friend  of 
ours  is  always  merciful,  more  merciful  than  man  would  ever 
be ;  for  the  unhappy  wife,  now  prone  on  the  couch,  shaken 
with  sobs;  now  lying  for  the  moment  forgetful  of  reality, 
her  eyes  full  of  adoring  dreams ;  now  starting  up  with  the 
flush  of  exaltation,  of  self-sacrifice — only  to  fall  back  again 
in  stubborn  despair — for  all  these  changes  the  Presence  had 
no  rebuke  ;  the  torturing  longing  love,  the  misery,  the  re 
lapses  into  sullen  rebellion,  and  then  the  slow,  slow  return 
towards  self-control  again,  all  these  it  beheld  with  pity  the 
most  tender.  For  it  knew  that  this  was  a  last  struggle,  it 
knew  that  this  woman,  though  torn  and  crushed,  would  in 
the  end  come  out  on  the  side  of  right — that  strange  hard 
bitter  right,  which,  were  this  world  all,  would  be  plain  wrong. 
And  Margaret  herself  knew  it  also,  yes  even  now  miserably 
knew  (and  rebelled  against  it),  that  she  should  come  out  on 
that  hard  side;  and  from  that  side  go  forward.  It  would 
be  blindly,  Wretchedly ;  there  could  be  for  her  no  hope  of 
happiness,  no  hope  even  of  resignation ;  she  scorned  pre 
tenses  and  substitutes,  and  lies  were  to  her  no  better  because 
they  were  pious  lies.  She  could  endure,  and  she  must  en 
dure  ;  and  that  would  be  all.  She  could  see  no  farther  be 
fore  her  now  than  the  next  step  in  her  path,  small  and  near 
and  dreary;  thus  it  would  always  be;  no  wide  outlook  but 
a  succession  of  little  steps,  all  near  and  all  dreary.  So  it 


EAST  ANGELS.  557 

would  continue,  and  with  always  the  same  effort.  And  that 
would  be  her  life. 

She  did  not  come  fully  to  this  now,  her  love  still  tortured 
her.  And  then  at  last  the  merciful  Presence  touched  her  hot 
eyes  and  despairing  heart,  and  with  the  picture  still  held 
close,  she  sank  into  a  dreamless  lethargy. 

When  Celestine  ventured  to  steal  softly  in  before  dawn, 
she  found  her  charge  like  a  figure  of  snow  on  the  floor,  the 
lamplight  shining  across  the  white  throat,  the  only  place 
where  its  ray  touched  her. 

The  New  England  woman  bent  over  her  noiselessly.  Then 
she  lifted  her/  As  she  did  so  the  little  picture  dropped; 
she  had  no  need  to  take  it  up  to  know  whose  face  was  there. 
"Poor  child?"  —  this  was  the  gaunt  old  maid's  mute  cry. 
She  had  the  pity  of  a  woman  for  a  woman. 

She  placed  Margaret  in  bed ;  then  lifting  the  picture  with 
a  delicate  modesty  which  there  was  no  one  there  to  see,  she 
put  it  hurriedly  back  in  her  hand  without  looking  at  it, 
and  laid  the  hand  where  it  had  been,  across  the  fair  breast. 
"When  she  comes  to,  first  thing  she'll  remember  it  and  wor 
ry.  And  then  she'll  find  it  there,  and  think  nobody  knows. 
She'll  think  she  went  back  to  bed  herself."  Thus  she  guarded 
her. 

Grim  old  Celestine  believed  ardently,  like  the  Doctor,  in 
love.  But  like  the  Doctor,  too,  she  believed  that  marriage 
was  indissoluble;  the  Carolina  High-Churchman  and  the  Ver 
mont  Calvinist  were  agreed  in  this.  Mistakes  were  plenty,  of 
course;  but  when  once  they  had  been  made,  there  was  no 
remedy  in  this  life ;  of  this  she  was  sure.  But  how  if  one 
happened  to  be  bound  upon  the  rack  meanwhile — a  woman 
whom  one  loved? 

The  dress-maker,  after  looking  at  Margaret  again,  went  off 
to  a  dark  corner  to  "  offer  prayer."  But  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  found  no  words  ready ;  what,  indeed,  should  she 
pray  for?  That  Margaret  might  die?  She  was  too  fond  of 
her  for  that.  That  Lanse  might  be  taken  ?  That  had  a  mur 
derous  sound,  even  if  you  called  it  "  taken."  That  Margaret's 
love  might  cease  ?  But  she  knew  very  well  that  it  would 
not.  So  all  she  said  was,  "  O  Lord,  help  her !"  very  fervent 
ly.  Then  she  got  up,  and  set  about  applying  restoratives. 


558  EAST  ANGELS. 

A  week  later,  when  Margaret  had  left  her  room  for  the  first 
time,  Celestine,  at  work  there,  restoring  for  her  own  satisfac 
tion  that  speckless  order  in  which  her  soul  delighted,  found 
upon  the  hearth,  mixed  with  the  ashes,  some  burned  bent 
metal  fragments  that  had  once  been  gilded — the  top  of  a  lit 
tle  frame ;  she  knew  then  that  the  last  sacrifice  had  been  ac 
complished.  A  small  one,  a  detail ;  but  to  women  the  de 
tails  are  hardest. 

The  Doctor  had  kept  Winthrop  strictly  informed  of  Mrs. 
Harold's  health.  At  first  the  letters  were  all  the  same.  But 
after  a  while  he  had  written  that  he  was  glad  to  say  that  she 
was  better.  For  a  long  time  to  come,  however  (he  added), 
any  over-pressure  would  be  sure  to  exhaust  her,  and  then,  in 
case  of  a  second  attack,  he  should  not  be  able  to  answer  for 
the  consequences.  Later  he  wrote  that  Mrs.  Harold's  strength 
would  not  now  be  taxed  by  any  more  "  untoward  interrup 
tions  ;"  she  had  made  her  intended  journey  to  Fernandina, 
he  was  glad  to  say,  and  had  returned  in  safety,  Mr.  Harold 
having  returned  with  her.  Everything  was  now  comfortably 
arranged  at  East  Angels ;  Mr.  Harold  had  the  west  rooms, 
and  the  men  he  had  brought  with  him — he  had  three  at  pres 
ent — seemed  to  understand  their  duties  fairly  well.  Mr.  Har 
old  was  carried  every  evening  into  Mrs.  Rutherford's  sitting- 
room,  which  was  an  agreeable  change  for  all.  Mrs.  Rutherford 
herself  had  improved  wonderfully  since  her  nephew's  arrival. 

Concerning  these  letters  of  his  to  Evert  Winthrop  the  Doc 
tor  felt  such  a  deep  sense  of  responsibility  that,  short  as  they 
were,  he  wrote  them  and  rewrote  them,  inspecting  each  phrase 
from  every  possible  point  of  view  before  his  old-fashioned 
quill  finally  set  it  down. 

This  last  result  of  his  selection  of  the  fittest,  Winthrop  re 
ceived  one  morning  at  breakfast.  He  read  it;  then  started 
out  and  went  through  his  day  as  usual,  having  occupations 
and  engagements  to  fill  every  hour.  But  days  end;  always 
that  last  ten  minutes  at  night  will  come,  no  matter  how  one 
may  put  it  off.  Winthrop  put  off  his  until  after  midnight; 
but  one  o'clock  found  him  caught  at  last ;  he  was  alone  be 
fore  his  fire,  he  could  no  longer  prevent  himself  from  taking 
out  that  letter  and  brooding  over  it. 

He  imagined  East  Angels,  he  imagined  Lanse;  he  imagined 


EAST  ANGELS.  559 

him  in  Aunt  Katrina's  pleasant  room,  with  the  bright  little 
evening  tire  sparkling  on  the  hearth,  with  Aunt  Katrina  her 
self  beaming  and  happy,  and  Margaret  near.  Yes,  Lanse  had 
everything,  he  had  always  had  everything.  He  had  never 
worked  an  hour  in  his  life  ;  he  had  pleased  himself  invariably  ; 
he  had  given  heed  to  no  one  and  yielded  to  no  one ;  and  now 
when  he  was  forced  at  last  by  sheer  physical  disability  to  re 
turn  home,  all  comfort,  all  devotion  awaited  him  there,  be 
stowed,  too,  by  the  very  persons  he  had  most  neglected  and 
wronged.  "  Unjust !  unjust !" — this  was  his  bitter  comment. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  fear  that  kept  him  fettered,  he 
would  have  thrown  everything  to  the  winds  and  started  again 
for  Florida  that  night,  he  would  have  swept  the  woman  he 
loved  out  of  that  house,  and  borne  her  away  somewhere — 
anywhere — and  he  should  have  felt  that  he  was  justified  in 
doing  it.  But  Margaret — he  had  always  to  reckon  with  that 
determination  of  hers  to  do  right,  even  in  the  face  of  her 
own  despair.  And  as  to  what  was  right  he  had  never  been 
able  in  the  least  to  confuse  her,  to  change  her,  as  a  man  can 
often  change  the  woman  who  loves  him  ;  just  the  same  she 
saw  it  now,  and  had  seen  it  from  the  beginning,  in  spite  of 
all  his  arguments  and  pleadings,  in  spite  of  all  her  own. 

She  loved  him.  But  she  would  not  yield.  And  these 
two  forces,  both  so  strong  that  they  bent  her  and  swayed  her 
like  torturers — if  the  strife  should  begin  again  between  them, 
as  it  must  if  he  should  go  to  her  entreating,  was  there  not 
danger  (as  the  Doctor,  indeed,  had  written)  that  her  slender 
strength  would  give  way  entirely  ?  He  had  never  forgotten 
the  feeling  in  his  arms  of  her  inert  form  as  he  laid  it  down 
that  day.  He  should  never  be  able  to  overpower — he  felt 
that  he  should  not — that  something,  something  stronger  than 
herself,  which  he  had  seen  looking  from  her  eyes  that  day 
in  the  orange  grove ;  this  would  remain  unchanged,  uncon- 
quered,  though  he  should  have  carried  her  away  from  every 
body,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  though — she  loved  him. 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  No,  first  of  all  she  must 
not  die.  For  there  was  always  the  chance  that  Lanse  himself 
might  die ;  this  did  not  seem  to  him  a  murderous  thought, 
as  it  had  seemed  to  Celestine.  It  came  across  him  suddenly 
that  Lanse  would  probably  be  quite  willing  to  discuss  it  with 


560  EAST  ANGELS. 

him  ;  he  would  say,  "  Well,  you  know,  I  perfectly  appreciate 
how  convenient  it  would  be."  Lanse  had  no  fear  of  death. 
He  called  it  "  a  natural  change ;"  none  but  a  fool,  he  said, 
could  fear  the  natural. 

Winthrop  got  up  at  last  and  went  to  the  window.  The 
brilliantly  lighted  street  lay  below  him,  but  he  was  not  think 
ing  of  New  York.  He  was  thinking  of  that  old  gray-white 
house  in  the  South,  the  house  he  had  been  fond  of,  but  whose 
door  was  now  closed  to  him,  perhaps  forever.  For,  unexplain- 
ably,  though  he  hoped  for  Lanse's  death,  he  had  not  the 
slightest  expectation  of  it  in  reality ;  both  he  and  Margaret 
had  the  sense  of  a  long  life  before  them.  There  would  be  no 
change,  no  relief ;  only  the  slow  flight  of  the  long  days  and 
years,  and  that  would  be  all.  He  came  back  to  his  hearth ; 
the  fire  had  died ;  he  sat  down  and  stared  at  the  ashes. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"How  will  she  appear?"  said  Mr.  Moore.  He  sat  in  his 
arm-chair,  his  eyes  were  following  the  pattern  of  the  red  and 
white  matting  on  the  floor. 

"  *  How,'  Middleton  ?"  said  Penelope,  looking  up  from  her 
knitting  reproachfully.  "  Why,  broken-hearted,  poor  child  !" 

"Yes,  broken-hearted,  I  fear;  broken-hearted,"  answered 
Middleton. 

Two  years  had  passed  since  the  burning  of  the  house  on 
the  point.  Mr.  Moore  was  now  quite  well  again,  save  that  he 
would  always  be  obliged  to  walk  slowly  and  support  himself 
with  a  cane.  The  rectory  was  more  comfortable  than  it  had 
been  in  former  years,  the  rector's  clerical  coat  was  a  better 
one ;  but  the  rector's  wife,  with  that  unconsciousness  of  her 
own  lacks,  which,  when  it  is  founded  (as  in  this  case)  upon  a 
husband's  unswerving  admiration,  is  not  without  its  charm — 
the  rector's  wife  was  contentedly  attired  in  the  green  delaine. 
Penelope  indeed  had  many  causes  for  contentment ;  it  was  so 
delightful  to  be  able  to  give  five-sixths  of  one's  income  to  the 
poor. 

At  the  present  moment  the  Moores  were  listening  for  the 


EAST  ANGELS.  561 

sound  of  wheels;  not  the  usual  rattle,  bat  the  muffled  grind 
through  sand  which  came  from  the  roadways  of  Gracias. 

"  Hark !"  said  Penelope,  lifting  a  forefinger.  "  Yes — there 
they  are !" 

•  Seizing  a  little  head-covering  of  green  wools,  the  product 
of  her  own  crochet-needle,  she  put  it  hastily  on,  and  giving 
Middleton  his  hat  and  stick,  went  with  him  down  the  path 
towards  the  gate.  A  carriage  had  stopped,  Dr.  Kirby  was 
helping  some  one  to  descend  from  the  high,  old-fashioned 
vehicle  ;  the  young  figure  in  black,  the  bright  hair  under  the 
veil,  the  overwhelming  burst  of  sobs  when  she  saw  their  fa 
miliar  faces — yes,  this  was  Garda  who  had  come  back  to 
them,  come  back  home,  as  they  fondly  called  it ;  she  had 
been  widowed  for  more  than  a  year,  Lucian  had  died  in  Ven 
ice  nineteen  months  before. 

They  brought  her  in,  tenderly  Mrs.  Moore  took  off  the  crape 
bonnet ;  the  girl  cried  bitterly,  her  head  on  Penelope's  shoul 
der.  There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  also ;  it 
seemed  so  strange  that  this  bowed  black  figure  should  be  their 
Garda,  the  beautiful,  idle,  young  girl  who  had  had  such  a  ge 
nius  for  happiness  that  she  had  been  able  to  extract  full 
measure  of  it  from  even  an  old  hammock  and  a  crane. 

Lucian  had  died  suddenly  of  fever.  Garda  herself,  pros 
trated  by  her  grief,  for  months  afterwards  had  scarcely  raised 
her  head.  Dr.  Kirby  had  started  immediately,  he  had  been 
with  her  through  the  worst  of  her  illness.  But  she  had  not 
been  alone ;  her  devoted  friends  in  Venice  were  two  sisters 
and  a  brother,  who,  singularly  enough,  were  cousins  of  Rosalie, 
Lucian's  first  wife,  and  of  the  same  name,  Bogardus.  These 
staid,  stout  people  had  been  fascinated  with  the  Spensers 
from  the  first. 

And  when  carne  the  overwhelming  blow  of  Lucian's  death, 
the  two  ladies,  Alicia  and  Gertrude,  immediately  took  charge 
of  the  stricken  young  wife,  and  did  it  with  a  tenderness 
which  even  Dr.  Kirby  pronounced  touching,  when  he  him 
self  arrived  in  Venice — as  soon  as  was  possible,  but  some 
weeks  later.  When  Garda  at  last  began  to  improve  a  little, 
her  lassitude  continued ;  it  was  evident  that  she  would  not 
be  able  to  travel  for  some  time  to  come.  Meanwhile  the 
poor  Doctor's  money  was  running  out.  Garda  did  not  think 

36 


562  EAST  ANGELS. 

of  this;  at  present  she  thought  only  of  her  sorrow,  and 
then,  as  had  always  been  said  of  Garda,  she  never  remem 
bered  money  at  all.  Of  course  the  Doctor  would  not  con 
fide  to  these  strangers  the  embarrassments  of  his  position. 
And  no  Bogardus,  left  to  himself,  would  have  been  able  to 
conceive  the  idea  that  a  man,  in  his  senses,  could  have  start 
ed  to  come  to  Venice  from  the  United  States  with  so  small 
a  sum  in  his  pocket  as  the  Doctor  had  been  able  to  provide. 
But  the  facts  remained  the  same;  Garda  could  not  travel,  the 
Doctor  was  obliged  to  say  at  last  that  he  must  go.  In  this 
emergency,  Trude  and  Lish-er,  as  their  brother  called  them, 
offered  to  remain  with  Mrs.  Spenser  for  the  present,  to  bring 
her  by  slow  stages  across  Europe  to  England,  and  thence  to 
New  York,  when  she  should  be  able  to  travel ;  while  Dick 
Bogardus  growled,  "Much  the  best  plan!  much  the  best 
plan  !"  behind  them. 

The  Doctor  had  never  been  able  in  the  least  to  compre 
hend  Dick,  he  considered  him  an  extraordinary  person  ;  Dick 
was  sixty,  short  in  stature,  gruff,  and  worth  five  millions. 
Dick,  on  his  side,  was  sure  that  the  Doctor  was  a  little  out 
of  his  mind.  But  Lish-er  and  Trude  would  be  very  kind  to 
Garda,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that ;  they  showed  an  al 
most  tyrannical  fondness  for  her  even  now — the  "thwarted 
maternal  instinct"  the  Doctor  in  his  own  mind  called  it. 
And  so  at  last  it  was  arranged,  and  the  anxious  guardian 
started  on  his  long  journey  homeward,  with  just  enough 
money  to  carry  him  to  Charleston  (where  he  could  borrow 
of  Sally),  and  barely  a  cent  to  spare. 

Lish-er  and  Trude  took  their  time,  they  had  not  been  so 
much  interested  in  anything  for  years;  they  said  to  every 
body  that  Garda  was  like  their  "  own  child."  This,  of  course, 
was  a  great  novelty.  But  in  reality  she  was  more  like  their 
doll — a  very  beautiful  and  precious  one.  Garda  herself  re 
mained  listless  and  passive.  But  her  mere  presence  was 
enough  for  the  two  old  maids  ;  it  was  a  sight  to  see  them 
purchasing  new  mourning  attire  for  her  in  Paris ;  to  such 
friends  as  they  met  they  announced  that  they  were  "  so  ex 
tremely  occupied  "  that  they  hardly  knew  how  they  should 
"  get  through."  But  it  could  not  last  forever,  even  'the  buy 
ing  of  clothes  in  Paris,  and  at  length  they  were  forced  to 


EAST   ANGELS.  563 

bring  their  charge  over  the  ocean  to  New  York — where  all 
the  other  Bogarduses  came  to  look  at  her,  to  see  for  them 
selves,  if  possible,  what  it  could  be  which  had  roused  such 
abnormal  enthusiasm  in  "  Dick  and  the  girls." 

"  It's  amazing  how  that  Garda  Thome  always  contrives  to 
make  everybody  serve  her  turn,"  was  Aunt  Katrina's  com 
ment,  meanwhile,  down  in  Gracias.  "Here's  a  whole  New 
York  family  —  of  our  best  people,  too  —  waiting  upon  her 
slavishly,  and  bringing  her  across  Europe  like,  like  I  don't 
know  what; — like  Cleopatra  down  the  Nile!" 

"  I  suppose  you  mean,  then,  that  Dick  Bogardus  is  Anto 
ny  ?"  said  Lanse,  working  away  at  his  fish -net.  He  had 
learned  to  make  his  nets  rapidly  now,  and  was  extremely 
proud  of  his  handiwork ;  he  gave  away  the  results  of  his  la 
bors  to  "  fishermen  of  good  moral  character ;" — it  was  neces 
sary  that  they  should  be  moral. 

At  the  moment  when  Garda  was  entering  the  rectory, 
Margaret,  at  East  Angels,  was  coming  down  the  stone  stair 
way  on  her  way  to  the  lower  door,  where  the  phaeton  and 
Telano  were  waiting ;  she  was  about  to  drive  to  Gracias.  As 
she  paused  a  moment  on  the  bottom  step  to  button  her 
gloves,  a  long  shadow  darkened  the  flags  at  her  feet ;  she 
looked  up ;  Adolfo  Torres  was  standing  at  the  open  portal. 
After  making  one  of  his  formal  bows  he  came  towards  her ; 
a  motion  of  his  hand  begged  her  to  remain  where  she  was. 
"  I  thought  you  would  be  going  there,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
therefore  brought  these — will  you  take  them  for  me  ?"  Flow 
ers  were  abundant  in  Gracias,  but  the  roses  he  held  towards  her 
were  extraordinarily  beautiful ;  all  crimson  or  pink,  they  glowed 
with  color,  and  filled  the  hall  with  a  rich  cinnamon  scent. 

"  I  will  take  them  if  you  wish,  Adolfo,"  Margaret  answer 
ed.  "  But  they  are — they  are  very — " 

The  roses  looked  indeed  as  if  intended  for  a  joyous  occa 
sion;  they  were  sumptuous,  superb. 

"  You  mean  that  they  are  bright.  I  know  it ;  I  intended 
them  to  be  so."  He  still  held  them  towards  her. 

"  Wait  a  while,"  she  said. 

His  face  changed.  "  I  know  you  are  my  friend,"  he  mur 
mured,  as  if  he  were  saying  it  to  convince  himself.  His  eyes 
had  dropped  to  his  rejected  blossoms. 


564  EAST  ANGELS. 

She  could  see  that  he  was  passionately  angry,  and  making 
one  of  his  firm  efforts  to  hold  himself  in  control.  "  I  will 
take  them  if  you  wish  it,"  she  said,  gently,  and  she  extended 
her  hand.  "  I  leave  it  to  you.  They  are  wonderfully  beau 
tiful,  I  see  that." 

"  They  came  from  Cuba;  I  have  been  watching  them  grow 
ing  for  nineteen  months — for  this." 

"  It  is  a  house  of  mourning,  you  know,  that  I  am  going 
to,"  she  said.  "  It  was,  as  you  say,  nineteen  months  ago — a 
long  time ;  but  the  remembrance  will  be  very  fresh  at  the 
rectory  this  afternoon." 

His  anger  suddenly  left  him,  he  raised  his  eyes  from  his 
roses  to  her  face,  and  smiled.  "  It's  always  fresh  to  me  !"  he 
answered.  The  glow  in  his  dark  countenance,  as  he  brought 
this  out,  appalled  her,  it  was  like  a  triumph — triumph  over 
death.  He  walked  to  the  door  and  tossed  the  roses  into  the 
sunshine  outside.  "  You  are  right,"  he  said.  "  I  can  afford 
to  wait — now  !"  And,  with  a  quick  salutation,  he  pulled  his 
hat  down  over  his  brows  and  walked  away. 

Telano  drove  Margaret  up  the  water-road  to  Gracias.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  she  reached  the  rectory ;  Dr. 
Kirby  was  watching  for  her,  he  came  down  to  the  gate  to 
meet  her. 

"  She  has  gone  to  her  room,"  he  said ;  "  we  have  persuaded 
her  to  go  and  lie  down  for  a  while,  as  she  has  done  nothing 
but  cry  since  first  seeing  the  Moores. — I  am  afraid  it  will  be 
even  worse  when  she  sees  you,"  he  added,  as  they  went  up 
the  path. 

Crossing  the  veranda,  he  stopped  with  his  hand  on  the 
door,  looking  at  his  companion  for  a  moment  before  enter 
ing. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  world  whom  the  Doctor  now  ad 
mired  so  much  as  he  admired  Margaret  Harold ;  for  the  past 
two  years  he  had  secretly  given  her  his  unswerving  help 
and  support.  He  thought  hers,  among  women,  the  most 
courageous  and  noble  nature  he  had  ever  known.  And  the 
sweetest,  also — ah,  yes,  in  its  hidden  depths,  overwhelming 
ly,  enchantingly  sweet !  The  delicacy  of  her  physical  con 
stitution,  too  (and  she  did  not  grow  stronger),  her  nearness 
to  breaking  down  at  times — these  things  had  endeared  her 


EAST  ANGELS.  565 

to  the  Doctor  greatly ;  for  it  touched  him  to  see,  month  af 
ter  month,  her  fair  youthfulness  growing  a  little  less  youth 
ful,  her  sweet  face  more  faint  in  color,  while  at  the  same 
time,  hour  by  hour,  he  saw  her  perform  her  full  task  so  com 
pletely,  in  all  its  details  as  well  as  its  broader  outlines.  He 
knew  that  she  constantly  suffered,  and  that  it  must  be  so. 
With  his  own  eyes  he  saw  how  she  endured.  As  a  physi 
cian,  if  nothing  else,  he  was  aware  bow  infrequent  is  quiet 
effort,  maintained  evenly,  day  after  day,  in  a  sex  which  can 
upon  occasion  perform  single  actions  that  rise  to  the  height 
of  the  superhuman,  and  are  far  beyond  the  endeavors  of  any 
man.  But  here  was  a  woman  capable  of  the  steady  effort; 
it  was  not  merely  that  she  had  remained  with  her  husband, 
had  allowed  him  to  take  possession  again  of  her  life  and  her 
home;  she  had  made  this  home  as  pleasant  to  him  and  to 
Aunt  Katrina  as  so  quiet  a  place  could  be  made  to  two  such 
persons.  She  never  secluded  herself,  she  was  always  ready 
to  talk,  she  brought  others  to  amuse  them ;  she  read  aloud, 
she  played  backgammon  and  checkers,  she  tied  the  ends  of 
the  fish  nets  and  kept  an  account  of  them.  She  accepted 
and  acted  upon  all  Lanse's  suggestions  regarding  her  dress ; 
she  smiled  frankly  over  his  succinct  stories,  which,  as  has  al 
ready  been  mentioned,  were  invariably  good — Aunt  Katrina 
generally  managing  to  comprehend  them  by  about  the  next 
day ;  in  addition  she  directed  the  complicated  household 
so  that  no  jars  made  themselves  felt;  and  during  all  this 
time,  these  long  two  years,  no  one  had  heard  a  syllable  from 
her  lips  that  was  sharp  in  sound;  nay,  more,  that  was  not 
sweet. 

There  are  women  who  are  capable  of  sacrificing  themselves, 
with  the  noblest  unselfishness  in  great  causes,  who  yet,  as  re 
gards  the  small  matters  of  every-day  life,  are  rather  uncom 
fortable  to  live  with  ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  those  who  are 
under  the  same  roof  with  them  are  driven  to  reflect  ncrw  and 
then  upon  the  merits  of  the  ancient  hermitages  and  caves  to 
which  in  former  ages  such  characters  were  accustomed  to  re 
tire.  These  being  out  of  fashion,  however,  the  relatives  can 
only  wish  (with  a  certain  desperation  of  fancy)  that  their 
dear  self-sacrificing  companions  might  imbibe  from  some 
where,  anywhere,  such  a  dose  of  selfishness  as  should  render 


566  EAST  ANGELS. 

their  own  lives  more  comfortable ;  and,  as  a  sequence,  that 
of  the  household,  as  well. 

The  Doctor  had  had  these  saints  as  his  patients  more  than 
once,  he  knew  them  perfectly.  But  here  was  a  woman  who 
had  sacrificed  her  whole  life  to  duty,  who  felt  constantly  the 
dreary  ache  of  deprivation  ;  but  who  yet  did  not  think  in 
the  least,  apparently,  that  these  things  freed  her  from  the 
kindly  efforts,  the  patience,  the  small  sweet  friendly  attempts 
which  made  home  comfortable. 

The  Doctor  had  been  witness  to  all  this,  as  he  had  been 
witness  also  that  day  in  the  orange  grove,  when  Evert  Win- 
throp  lifted  this  same  woman  in  his  arms,  where  she  lay 
speechless,  tortured  by  the  pain  of  parting  with  him. 

Her  pain  was  the  same  now — he  knew  that ;  but  she  had 
learned  to  bear  it.  Unspeakably  he  honored  her. 

And  now  this  woman  had  come  to  see  Garda  in  her  trou 
ble,  Garda  who  was  so  infinitely  dear  to  him,  though  in  an 
other  way  He  felt,  as  he  stood  there  with  his  hand  upon 
the  door-knob,  that  he  must  for  once — for  once — acknowl 
edge  the  difference  between  these  two  natures ;  he  could  not 
be  content  with  himself  without  it.  "  I  know  you  will  be 
very  good  to  her,"  he  said — "  our  poor  Garda,  our  dear  little 
girl ;  she  is  suffering  greatly,  and  we  must  tide  her  over  it  as 
well  as  we  can.  Yes,  tide  her  over  it ;  for  you  and  I  know, 
Mrs.  Harold,  that  deep  as  her  sorrow  is  —  undoubtedly  is, 
poor  child  ! — it  will  pass." 

He  opened  the  door,  and  Margaret  entered.  Then  he 
closed  it  from  the  outside,  and  made  his  escape.  He  felt 
like  a  traitor ;  yet  he  had  had  to  say  it — he  had  had  to  say 
it! 

But  the  next  moment  he  was  taking  himself  to  task  as  he 
walked  violently  homeward  across  the  plaza.  u  Don't  you 
want  it  to  pass,  you  great  idiot,  that  sorrow  of  hers?  How 
much  good  can  a  woman  do  sitting  all  her  life  upon  a  tomb  ? 
she  can't  even  be  ornamental  there,  in  my  humble  opinion. 
No ;  it's  a  thorough  waste,  a  thorough  waste  !"  He  entered 
his  old  house,  still  revolving  these  reflections ;  he  came  burst 
ing  in  upon  Ma. 

"  Ma,"  he  announced,  as  the  little  old  lady  in  her  neat 
widow's  cap  looked  up  in  surprise — he  spoke  with  emphasis, 


EAST  ANGELS.  567 

as  he  was  still  suffering  sharply  from  having  had,  as  it  were, 
to  denounce  Garda  —  "I  am  convinced,  Ma,  that  it  would 
have  been  infinitely  better  for  you,  infinitely,  if  you  had  mar 
ried  again." 

"  Mercy  on  us,  Reginald  !"  said  astonished  little  Ma. 

Margaret  entered  Garda's  room  with  a  noiseless  step,  the 
Moores  had  thought  it  better  that  she  should  go  alone.  The 
blinds  had  been  closed,  but  a  gleam  of  the  sunset  entered  be 
tween  the  slats,  and  made  a  line  of  gold  across  the  floor ;  the 
motionless  figure  on  the  lounge  had  been  covered  (by  Penel 
ope)  with  that  most  desolate  of  all  draperies,  a  plain  black 
shawl.  Though  Margaret  had  entered  so  quietly,  Garda 
seemed  to  know  who  it  was ;  she  was  lying  with  her  face 
turned  away,  but  she  spoke  instantly — "Margaret?"  And 
Margaret  came  and  took  her  in  her  arms. 

"  Margaret,  I  cannot  bear  it,"  Garda  said,  calmly  ;  "  I  have 
tried,  but  it  is  impossible.  And  if  you  cannot  tell  me  how 
to — you  the  only  one  I  really  believe,  I  shall  not  try  any 
more.  It  is  decided." 

"  Time  will  tell  you  how,  Garda,"  Margaret  answered,  put 
ting  her  hand  upon  the  girl's  head  as  it  lay  against  her 
breast.  "  Time,  I  think,  is  the  only  thing  that  can  help  us — 
women,  I  mean — when  we  suffer  so." 

"  But  it's  nineteen  months  already,"  Garda  went  on,  in  the 
same  desperately  calm  tone.  "  And  to-day  I've  suffered  just 
as  much  as  I  did  in  the  beginning — exactly  as  much." 

"  Yes — the  coming  home.     It  will  be  different  now." 

" But  now's  now" said  Garda,  sitting  up,  and  looking  at 
her  friend,  her  face  hardened,  her  lovely  lips  set  in  her  pain. 

"  I  mean  soon,  dear." 

"I  won't  believe  it  unless  you  swear  it  to  me,"  Garda 
went  on.  She  got  up  and  stood  looking  at  Margaret.  "  If 
you  will  swear  it  to  me  I  will  try  to  believe  it,  because  you 
know  me,  and  you  speak  the  truth." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  listen :  I  am  absolutely  sure  of  it,"  Mar 
garet  answered. 

"  Sure  that  I  shall  stop  caring  so  much  ?  stop  feeling  so 
dreadfully  ?" 

"  Yes,  sure." 

"  But   when   will   it  begin  ?"  the  girl    demanded,  shaken 


568  EAST  ANGELS. 

with  fresh  sobs;  she  leaned  down  as  she  spoke,  pressing  her 
hands  on  Margaret's  shoulders  and  looking  at  her  insistently, 
as  if  she  would  draw  from  her  by  force  a  comforting  reply. 

"  To-morrow,  perhaps,"  said  Margaret,  answering  her  al 
most  as  one  answers  a  suffering  child. 

"  Well — you  mustn't  leave  me." 

"  I  won't  leave  you  to-night  at  least." 

This  gave  Garda  some  slight  solace,  she  sat  down  and 
rested  her  head  on  Margaret's  shoulder.  "  He  was  buried  in 
Venice — on  that  island,  you  know.  Margaret,  I  want  to  go 
down  to  East  Angels  to-morrow,  mamma  is  there;  do  you 
remember  dear  little  mamma?" 

But  this  quiet  did  not  last  long.  Suddenly  she  sprang  up 
again,  and  began  walking  about  the  room,  clinching  her 
hands. 

Margaret  went  to  her. 

"  I  told  you  I  could  not  bear  it,"  Garda  cried,  flinging  her 
off.  "  You  said  it  would  stop,  and  it  hasn't  stopped  at  all. 
It  suffocates  me,  it's  a  sort  of  dreadful  agony  in  my  throat 
that  you  don't  know  anything  about,  you — you  /"  And  she 
faced  her  friend  like  a  creature  at  bay.  "  When  shall  I  be 
gin  to  forget  him  ?— tell  me  that.  When  ?" 

"  But  you  do  not  wish  to  forget  him,  Garda." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  I  wish  I  might  never  think  of  him  on  earth 
again,"  said  Garda,  fiercely,  giving  a  stamp  with  her  foot  as 
one  does  in  extremity  of  physical  pain.  "  Why  should  I 
suffer  so?  it's  not  right.  If  you  don't  help  me  more  than 
you've  done  (and  I  relied  upon  you  so),  I  shall  certainly  go 
to  him — go  to  Lucian.  He'll  be  glad  to  see  me,  he  thinks 
more  of  me  than  yon  do — you  who  haven't  helped  me  at 
all !  But  it  will  be  easy  to  end  it,  you  will  see ;  I've  got 
something  I  shall  take.  I  relied  upon  you  so — I  relied  upon 
you  so !" 

Margaret  took  her  hands.  "  Give  me  another  day,  Garda," 
she  said. 

"Only  one,"  answered  Garda. 


EAST  ANGELS.  569 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

ONE  afternoon,  six  months  later,  Margaret,  under  her  white 
umbrella,  opened  the  gate  of  the  rose  garden  at  East  Angels. 
She  came  through  the  crape-myrtle  avenue,  at  the  end  of  its 
long  vista,  on  the  bench  under  the  great  rose-tree,  she  saw 
Garda;  the  crane,  outlined  in  profile  against  the  camellia 
bushes,  kept  watch  over  his  mistress  stiffly  ;  another  com 
panion,  in  bearing  scarcely  less  rigid,  stood  beside  her — 
Adolpho  Torres. 

His  Cuban  slips  had  served  their  destiny  after  all,  Garda's 
lap  was  full  of  roses.  Crimson  and  pink,  they  lay  on  her 
black  dress  a  mass  of  color,  contrasting  with  the  creamy  hue 
of  the  paler  roses  above  her  head. 

There  was  always  the  same  interest  in  Margaret;  as  soon 
as  Garda  saw  her  friend,  she  left  the  bench  and  came  to  meet 
her.  The  roses  tumbled  to  the  ground ;  Adolpho  did  not 
glance  at  his  fallen  blossoms,  but  Carlos,  stalking  forward, 
pecked  at  the  finest  ones. 

"  Oh,  have  you  got  through  at  last — that  everlasting  read 
ing  aloud  and  fish-nets?"  Garda  inquired.  "To  think  that 
I  should  have  to  give  way  to  fish-nets  ?" 

"  I  was  to  tell  you — Lanse  hopes  that  you  will  come  in  be 
fore  long,"  Margaret  answered. 

"  Hopes  are  good.  But  I  shall  not  come  in."  And  Gar- 
da  linked  her  arm  in  her  friend's.  "  Or  rather,  if  I  do,  I 
shall  go  and  sit  in  your  room  with  you — may  I  ?  Good-by, 
Adolpho;  you  are  not  vexed  with  me  for  going?"  she  add 
ed.  And,  leaving  Margaret,  she  went  back  to  him,  extending 
her  hand. 

He  bowed  over  it.     "  Whatever  pleases  you — " 

"You  please  me,"  answered  Garda,  promptly.  "After 
they  have  carried  off  Mr.  Harold  to  bed,  those  terrible  men 
of  his — about  ten  o'clock  generally — then  I  never  have  very 
much  to  do  for  an  hour.  From  ten  to  eleven,  that  is  the 
time  when  I  am  in  want  of  societv." 


570  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  But  you  don't  expect  poor  Mr.  Torres  to  go  stumbling- 
home  through  the  woods  at  midnight,  just  for  the  sake  of 
giving  you  that  ?"  Margaret  suggested. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Mr.  Torres  never  stumbled  in  his  life.  And 
I  don't  think  he  is  at  all  poor,"  Garda  answered,  smiling. 

He  had  kept  her  hand,  he  bowed  over  it;  he  did  not  ap 
pear  to  think  he  was,  himself. 

"Yes— from  ten  to  eleven,  that  is  much  the  best  time. 
Couldn't  you  come  then,  and  only  then  ?"  Garda  went  on. 
"  Margaret  doesn't  mind,  she's  always  late." 

"  Yes,  I've  a  wretched  habit  of  sitting  up,"  that  lady  ac 
knowledged. 

"  It  is  impossible  that  any  habit  of  Mrs.  Harold's  should 
be  wretched,"  announced  the  Cuban,  with  gravity.  "  She 
may  not  always  explain  her  reasons.  They  are  sure  to  be 
excellent." 

"  Come,  Margaret,  we  can  go  after  that,"  said  Garda.  "  If 
you  should  tell  him  that  you  had  a  little  habit  of  scalping 
— small  negroes,  for  instance — he  would  be  sure  that  your 
reasons  were  perfect.  And  gather  up  the  scalps."  Smiling 
a  good-by  to  Torres,  she  drew  her  friend  away  with  her,  go 
ing  down  the  myrtle  avenue.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 
she  asked.  "  May  I  come  and  sit  with  you  till  dinner  ?" 

"I  have  accounts  to  look  over;  I  shouldn't  be  much  of  a 
companion." 

"  Always  something." 

"  Yes,  always  something." 

"  Well,  I  shall  come,  all  the  same." 

An  hour  later  she  entered  Margaret's  room,  selected  a  low 
chair  which  she  liked,  and  seated  herself.  This  apartment 
of  Margaret's,  which  was  called  her  dressing-room,  though 
in  reality  she  never  dressed  there,  contained  her  own  small 
library,  her  writing-table,  the  rows  of  account-books  (with 
which  she  was  at  present  engaged),  and  sewing  materials — 
all  articles  which  Garda  declared  she  detested.  "  It  looks 

like  an  industrial  school  "  she  said ;  "  you  only  need  shoe- 

i       •,      ,,  p  j  j 

brushes." 

"  Why  shoe-brushes?"  Mrs.  Harold  had  inquired. 
"They  always  make  them — in  industrial  schools,"  Garda 
had  responded,  irnaginativelv. 


EAST  ANGELS.  571 

The  mistress  of  the  house  had  not  lifted  her  head  when  Gar- 
da  entered,  she  went  on  with  her  accounts.  Garda  had  appar 
ently  lost  nothing  of  her  old  capacity  for  motionless  sereni 
ty;  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  she  swayed  a  feather  fan 
slowly  to  and  fro,  looking  at  the  top  of  a  palmetto,  which 
she  could  see  through  the  open  window,  shooting  up  against 
the  blue ;  her  beauty  was  greater  than  ever,  her  eyes  were 
sweeter  in  expression,  her  girlish  figure  was  now  more  wom 
anly.  After  musing  in  this  contented  silence  for  half  an 
hour,  she  fell  asleep. 

Some  minutes  later,  Margaret,  missing  the  soft  motion  of 
the  fan,  looked  up ;  she  smiled  when  she  saw  the  sleeping 
figure.  It  was  a  warm  day,  Garda  had  changed  her  thin 
black  dress  for  a  white  one ;  through  the  lace,  of  which  it 
was  principally  composed,  her  round  arms  gleamed.  She 
had  dropped  her  fan  ;  her  head,  with  the  thick  braids  of 
hair  wound  closely  about  it,  drooped  to  one  side  like  a 
flower. 

Margaret  had  smiled  to  see  how  easily,  as  a  child  does, 
she  had  glided  into  unconsciousness.  But  the  next  moment 
the  smile  was  followed  by  a  heavy  sigh.  It  was  a  sigh  of 
envy,  the  page  of  figures  grew  dim,  then  faded  from  before 
her  eyes,  she  dropped  her  head  upon  her  clasped  hands  in 
the  abandonment  of  the  fresh,  the  ever-fresh  realization  of 
her  own  dreariness.  This  realization  was  never  long  absent ; 
she  might  hope  that  she  had  forgotten  it,  or  that  it  had  for 
gotten  her;  but  it  always  came  back. 

It  happened  that  at  this  instant  Garda  woke ;  and  saw  the 
movement.  She  came  swiftly  across  to  her  friend.  "  Oh,  I 
knew  you  were  unhappy,  though  you  never,  never  say  so ! 
But  now  I  have  caught  you,  I  have  seen  it.  And  oh,  Mar 
garet,  you  are  so  changed ! — you  are  the  loveliest  woman  in 
the  world  still, — but  you  have  grown  so  thin  ;  look  at  your 
hands."  And  she  held  up  one  of  Margaret's  hands  against 
the  light  to  show  its  transparency. 

But  Margaret  drew  her  hand  away.  "  If  I'm  thin,  I  am 
only  following  out  my  privilege  as  an  American  woman," 
she  answered,  lightly.  "  Don't  you  know  that  we  pride  our 
selves  upon  remaining  slender?" 

"Slender — yes;  that  is  what  you  were.     Your  arms  were 


572  EAST  ANGELS. 

always  slender,  and  yet  round.  But  now—"  She  pushed 
up  Margaret's  sleeve.  "See  your  poor  wrists.  Oh,  Marga 
ret,  I  do  believe  that  before  long  even  hollows  in  your  pretty 
neck  will  begin  to  show  !" 

"How  can  they,  if  I  always  wear  high  dresses?"  said  Mar 
garet,  smiling. 

She  rose  as  she  spoke.  But  if  her  motive  was  to  escape 
from  further  scrutiny,  she  was  not  successful ;  Garda  took 
hold  of  her  and  made  her  sit  down  on  a  couch  near  one  of 
the  windows,  and  standing  in  front  of  her  to  keep  her  there, 
she  continued  her  inspection.  "Yes,  you  are  thinner.  There 
are  little  fine  lines  going  down  your  face.  And  your  face 
itself  has  grown  narrow.  That  makes  your  eyes  too  large,  I 
don't  like  your  eyes  now;  they  are  too  big  and 'blue." 

"They  were  always  blue,  weren't  they?" 

"Now  they  are  the  kind  of  blue  that  yon  see  in  the  eyes 
of  golden-haired  children  that  have  got  to  die,"  pursued  Gar- 
da,  making  one  of  her  curiously  accurate  comparisons. 

Suddenly  she  held  Margaret's  hands  down  with  her  own 
left  hand,  and  with  her  right  pushed  back  swiftly  the  dark 
hair;  it  was  the  hair  that  lay  low  over  the  forehead;  for 
Lanse's  taste  was  still  consulted,  his  wife's  dusky  locks  rip 
pled  softly  above*  her  blue  eyes,  having  now  certainly  nothing 
of  the  plain  appearance  to  which  he  had  objected. 

The  forehead  thus  suddenly  exposed  betrayed  at  the  tem 
ples  a  wasted  look,  with  the  blue  veins  conspicuous  on  the 
white.  "I  knew  it!"  said  Garda.  She  sat  down  beside  her 
friend,  and  kissed  her  with  angry  tenderness.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  you?"  she  demanded,  putting  her  arms  round 
her  and  giving  her  a  little  shake.  "  You  shall  tell  me.  What 
is  the  matter  ?" 

"A  very  natural  thing;  I  am  growing  old,  that  is  all." 
And  Margaret  tried  to  rearrange  the  disordered  hair. 

"Leave  it  as  it  is,  I  am  determined  to  see  the  worst  of 
you  this  time.  You  —  with  all  that  pretty  hair  and  your 
pretty  dresses — you  have  managed  to  conceal  it."  And  a^ain 
with  searching  eyes  she  examined  her  friend.  "You  don't 
care  at  all !"  she  announced. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do,"  said  Margaret. 

"  You  don't  care  in  the  least.     But  I  care ;  and  something 


EAST  ANGELS.  573 

shall  be  done.  They  have  worn  you  out  between  them — 
two  invalids ;  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Harold." 

Margaret's  face  altered.  "No,  Garda,  you  must  not  do 
that." 

u  But  he  likes  me,"  said  Garda,  insistently ;  "  he  will  say 
yes  to  anything  I  ask — you  will  see  if  he  doesn't." 

And  Margaret  felt,  like  a  wave,  the  conviction  that  he 
would ;  more  than  this,  that  he  would  always  have  said  yes 
if  Garda  had  been  the  wife  instead  of  herself.  Garda  would 
never  have  been  submissive,  Garda  would  never  have  yielded. 
But  to  Garda  he  would  always  have  said  yes. 

"  I  shall  certainly  speak  to  him,"  Garda  persisted.  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  not  mind  what  you  say,  if  it  is  for  your  good?" 

"  It  would  not  be  for  my  good." 

"  But  he  is  kind  to  you,  I  know  it,  because  I  see  it  with 
my  own  eyes.  He  thinks  you  are  lovely,  he  has  told  me  so ; 
he  says  you  are  a  very  rare  type.  And  he  himself — he  is  so 
agreeable ;  he  says  unusual  things ;  he  never  tires  anybody ; 
his  very  fish-nets  are  amusing.  I  like  him  ever  so  much ; 
and  though  he  is  crippled,  he  is  very  handsome — there  is 
such  a  golden  light  in  his  brown  eyes." 

"  He  is  all  that  you  say,"  Margaret  answered,  smiling  at 
this  enumeration. 

She  could  talk  about  her  husband  readily  enough  now. 
As  Garda  had  noticed,  he  was  always  kind,  his  manner  had 
been  steadily  kind  (though  not  without  many  a  glimpse  of 
inward  entertainment  gleaming  through  it)  ever  since  he  en 
tered  East  Angels'  doors;  he  appeared  to  have  taken  his 
wife  under  his  protection,  he  told  Aunt  Katrina  once  for  all, 
and  authoritatively  (to  that  lady's  amazement),  that  she  must 
hereafter,  in  his  presence  at  least,  be  "  less  catty  "  to  Marga 
ret.  During  the  one  visit  which  Evert  Winthrop  had  paid 
to  Florida  in  the  same  period,  Lanse  announced  to  him  (in 
the  tone  of  the  old  Roman  inscription) — "  I'm  as  steady  as 
a  church,  old  lad.  I  make  nets  for  the  poor.  I  talk  to 
Aunt  K.  I'm  good  to  the  little  people  about  here.  I'm  -a 
seraph  to  Margaret." 

Garda's  present  visit  at  East  Angels  had  begun  but  two 
days  before.  She  had  been  spending  some  time  in  New  York 
with  Lish-er  and  Trude.  These  ladies  having  written  once 


574  EAST  ANGELS. 

a  week  since  their  first  parting  with  her,  to  say  that  they 
were  sure  that  she  must  by  this  time  be  needing  "  a  drier 
air,"  Garda  had  at  length  accepted  the  suggestion ;  and  tried 
the  air.  It  proved  to  be  that  of  Ninth  Street ;  and  was  in 
deed  remarkably  dry.  This  visit  to  Margaret  was  her  second 
one;  six  months  before  she  had  made  a  long  stay  at  East 
Angels — so  long  that  Aunt  Katrina  began  to  fear  that  she 
would  never  go  away.  The  violence  of  the  grief  that  had 
accompanied  her  first  return  to  Gracias  had  subsided  with 
singular  suddenness ;  she  said  to  Margaret,  in  an  apathetic 
tone,  "  I  had  to  kill  it,  you  know,  or  else  kill  myself.  I  came 
very  near  killing  myself." 

"I  was  much  alarmed  about  you," Margaret  answered,  hes 
itating  as  to  whether  or  not  to  say  more. 

Garda  divined  her  thoughts.  "  Did  you  think  I  was  out 
of  my  mind  ?  I  wasn't  at  all ;  it  was  only  that  I  couldn't 
bear  the  pain.  Let  us  never  speak  of  that  time  again — 
never!  never!"  She  got  up,  and  for  a  moment  stood  trem 
bling  and  quivering.  Then,  with  the  same  rapidity  and  com 
pleteness,  she  resumed  her  calm. 

Margaret  never  did  speak  of  it  again.  "  But  how  was  it 
that  she  killed  it — how?"  was  her  dreary  thought. 

During  that  first  visit,  Lanse  and  Mrs.  Spenser  had  become 
fast  friends;  every  evening  she  played  checkers  with  him, 
and  she  was  the  only  person  with  whom  he  did  not  bluster 
over  the  game;  she  contradicted  him  ;  she  made  sport  of  his 
fish-nets;  she  used  his  Fielding  for  her  footstool;  she  put 
forward  the  proposition  that  her  own  face  was  prettier  than 
his  Mino  outlines. 

Lanse  denied  this.  "  My  Mino  outlines  are  not  in  the  least 
pretty.  But  then  you  are  not  in  the  least  pretty  yourself." 

"  Not  pretty  !"  said  Garda,  with  a  protesting  cry.  "  Why, 
even  a  little  pussy  cat  can  be  pretty." 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  a  trace  of  prettiness  in 
you."  He  paused.  "  You  are  simply  superb,"  he  said,  look 
ing  at  her  with  his  deep  bold  eyes.  "  What  makes  you  stay 
on  here  ?"  he  added  in  another  tone,  surveying  her  curiously. 

Garda  turned ;  but  Margaret  had  by  chance  left  the  room. 
"  I  was  going  to  point  to  Margaret,"  she  answered ;  "  I  stay 
because  I  love  her — love  to  be  with  her." 


EAST  ANGELS.  575 

"Well,  you'll  have  a  career,"  Lanse  announced,  briefly. 

The  next  day  he  said  to  Aunt  Katrina,  "  I  should  like  to 
have  seen  that  girl  before  she  was  married ;  there's  such  an 
extraordinary  richness  in  her  beauty  that  I  don't  believe  she 
ever  had  an  awkward  age ;  she  was  probably  graceful  at  six 
teen." 

"  She  was  designing  at  sixteen." 

"  No !  For  whom  could  she  have  been  designing  down 
here?" 

"  Evert." 

"And  the  idiot  let  her  slip  through  his  fingers?" 

"Deliver  us!"  said  the  lady.  "If  I've  got  to  hear  you 
admire  her  too !" 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  day  when  she  had  threatened 
to  speak  to  Lanse  about  his  wife's  health,  Garda  came  and 
knocked  at  Margaret's  door.  "  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  said, 
entering. 

Adolfo  had  gone  an  hour  before,  and  she  had  been  in  her 
own  room  meanwhile;  but  she  had  not  taken  off  her  white 
lace  attire,  or  loosened  the  braids  of  her  hair.  Margaret  too 
was  fully  dressed. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  Garda  demanded,  suspi 
ciously,  as  she  looked  at  her.  "  Not  crying  ?" 

"I 'think  I  have  forgotten  how  to  cry." 

"  Well,  your  eyes  are  dry,"  Garda  admitted.  She  closed 
the  door,  then  went  to  one  of  the  windows  and  looked  out. 
There  had  been  a  heavy  rain  during  the  evening,  and  the  air 
was  much  cooler;  it  was  very  dark.  She  closed  the  shut 
ters  of  all  the  three  windows  and  fastened  them.  "  It's  so 
gloomy  out  there  !  Pine  cones  ?  What  luck  !  we'll  have  a 
fire." 

"  Garda— we  shall  melt !" 

"No,  the  room  is  too  large."  She  piled  the  cones  on  the 
hearth  and  set  fire  to  them  ;  in  an  instant  the  blaze  flared 
out  and  lighted  up  all  the  dusky  corners.  "  That's  better. 
Only  one  poor  miserable  little  candle  ?"  And  she  proceeded 
to  light  four  others  that  stood  about  here  and  there. 

"  Are  you  preparing  for  a  ball  ?" 

"  I  am  preparing  for  a  talk.  I'm  lonely  to-night,  Marga 
ret,  and  I  can't  bear  to  feel  lonely  ;  how  long  may  I  stay  ? 


576  EAST  ANGELS. 

Are  yon  sure  you  haven't  got  to  go  and  do  something? — say 
good-night  to  Mr.  Harold,  for  instance  ?" 

"  He  has  been  asleep  these  two  hours.  He  always  has  one 
of  his  men  in  the  room  with  him." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  why  haven't  you  undressed,  then,  all 
this  time?"  Garda  went  on,  with  returning  suspicion. 

"  Why  haven't  you  ?  But  have  you  no  conscience,  think 
ing  of  poor  Adolfo  banging  into  all  the  trees  and  falling  into 
all  the  ditches  on  his  way  home  ?" 

"  No,  Adolfo  and  I  are  not  troubled  about  conscience, — 
Adolfo  and  I  understand  each  other  perfectly.  It's  in  the 
blood,  I  suppose ;  we  belong  to  the  same  race,"  said  the 
daughter  of  the  Dueros. 

She  had  been  standing  watching  her  fire ;  now  she  drew 
up  a  chair  before  it  and  sat  down.  "  I  did  not  say  anything 
to  Mr.  Harold  about  you,  after  all,"  she  said. 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  when  I  told  you  I  did  not  wish 
it." 

"  I  shall  do  it  to-morrow ;  you  are  to  come  north  with  me 
the  next  time  I  go." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  East  Angels." 

"  I  saw  Evert  in  New  York,"  Garda  began  again,  after  a 
short  silence.  "  I  wrote  a  note  asking  him  to  come.  He 
came — he  came  three  times.  But  three  times  isn't  much  ?" 
And  she  glanced  towards  Margaret. 

Margaret  had  kept  her  place  on  the  sofa  where  she  was 
sitting  when  Garda  entered ;  but  she  had  drawn  forward  on 
its  casters  a  tall  screen  to  shield  herself  from  the  fire,  and 
this  threw  her  face  into  shadow.  "  No,  not  much,"  she  an 
swered  from  her  dark  nook. 

"  I  love  to  tell  you  things,"  Garda  resumed,  gazing  at  the 
blaze.  "  Well — he  wouldn't  like  me — what  would  you  say 
to  that?  I  had  thought  that  perhaps  he  might;  but  no,  he 
wouldn't." 

This  time  there  was  no  answer  from  the  shadow. 

"I  used  to  think  —  long  ago  —  that  it  was  because  he 
couldn't,"  Garda  went  on  ;  "I  mean,  couldn't  care  for  any 
one  very  much  ;  care  as  I  care.  But  I  was  mistaken.  Com 
pletely.  He  can  care.  But  not  for  me." 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  long  mirror,  in  the  bright 


EAST  ANGELS.  577 

light  her  face  and  figure  were  clearly  reflected ;  here  she 
stood  looking  at  herself  for  some  time  in  silence,  as  if  touch 
ed  by  a  new  curiosity.  She  moved  nearer  the  glass,  so  that 
she  could  see  her  face ;  then  back  to  get  a  view  of  the  image 
as  a  whole ;  she  turned  half  round,  with  her  bead  over  her 
shoulder,  in  order  to  see  herself  in  profile.  She  adjusted  the 
ribbon  round  her  supple  waist,  and  gave  a  touch,  musingly, 
to  her  hair;  she  lifted  her  white  hands  and  looked  at  them ; 
dropping  them,  she  clasped  them  behind  her,  and  indulged 
in  another  general  survey.  "  Such  as  I  am,  he  cares  noth 
ing  for  me,"  she  said  at  last,  speaking  not  in  surprise,  but 
simply,  as  one  who  states  a  fact. 

She  looked  at  herself  again.  "  I  don't  say  he's  not  a  fool !" 
And  she  gave  a  good-humored  laugh. 

She  left  the  glass  and  came  towards  Margaret.  "  I've  got 
to  tell  you  something,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know,  I  tried. 
Yes,  I  tried;  for  I  like  him  so  much!  You  remember  I 
thought  everything  of  him  once,  when  we  were  first  en 
gaged,  long  ago?  I  appreciate  him  better  now.  And  I  like 
him  so  much  !"  While  she  was  saying  these  last  words  she 
came  and  knelt  down  beside  the  sofa  in  her  old  caressing 
fashion,  her  clasped  hands  on  Margaret's  knees.  But  her 
movement  had  pushed  the  screen,  and  it  rolled  back,  letting 
the  fire-light  shine  suddenly  across  Margaret's  face. 

"  Merciful  Heaven  !"  cried  Garda,  springing  to  her  feet  as 
she  saw  the  expression  there ;  "  do  you  care  for  him  ? — is 
that  it  ?  The  cause  of  all — the  change  in  you,  and  in  him 
too  ?  Oh,  how  blind  I  have  been  ! — how  blind  !  But  I  never 
once  suspected  it.  Don't  think  of  a  word  I  have  said,  he 
didn't  look  at  me ;  I  tried,  but  he  wouldn't;  he  despises  me, 
I  know.  I  like  him  better  than  any  one  in  the  world,  now 
that  Lucian  is  gone,"  she  went  on,  with  her  bare  frankness. 
"  But  he  will  never  care  for  me  ;  and  a  very  good  reason,  too, 
when  it  is  you  he  cares  for !" 

Margaret  had  bowed  her  head  upon  her  arm,  which  rested 
upon  the  sofa's  back.  Garda  sat  down  beside  her.  "How 
many  times  have  you  comforted  me !"  she  said.  "  If  I  could 
only  be  of  the  smallest  comfort  to  you,  Margaret !" 

Margaret  did  not  answer. 

"  And  it  has  been  so  all  these  long  years,"  Garda,  mur- 
37 


578  EAST  ANGELS. 

mured,  after  sitting  still  and  thinking  of  it.  "  You  are  bet 
ter  than  I  am  !" 

"Better!" 

"  There  isn't  an  angel  in  heaven  at  this  moment  better 
than  you  are,"  Garda  responded,  vehemently.  "But  you 
mustn't  keep  on  in  this  way,  you  know,"  she  added,  after  a 
moment. 

"  I  can't  talk,  Garda." 

"That  is  it,  Evert  has  talked!  He  has  tired  you  out.  I 
can  imagine  that  when  once  he  is  in  earnest — Margaret,  let 
me  tell  you  this  one  thing:  you  can't  live  under  all  this, 
you'll  die." 

"It's  not  so  easy  to  die,"  answered  Lansing  Harold's  wife. 

"  You  think  I  don't  know  about  Mr.  Harold.  But  I  do. 
Lucian  heard  the  whole  in  Rome ;  I  even  saw  her  myself — 
in  a  carriage  on  the  Pincio.  I  know  that  he  left  you  twice 
to  go  to  her — twice;  what  claim  has  he,  then,  upon  you? 
But  what  is  the  use  of  my  talking,  if  Evert  has  been  able  to 
do  nothing !" 

Margaret  sat  up.  "  Go  now,  Garda.  I  would  rather  be 
alone." 

But  Garda  would  not  go.  "  I  could  never  be  like  you," 
she  went  on.  "  And  this  is  a  case  where  you  had  better  be 
more  like  me.  Margaret!  Margaret!"  and  she  clung  to  her, 
suddenly.  "  Such  a  love  as  his  would  be  !"  she  whispered — 
"  how  can  you  refuse  it?  I  think  it's  wicked,  too,  because  it's 
his  whole  life,  he  isn't  Lansing  Harold !  And  you  love  him 
so  ;  you  needn't  deny  it ;  I  can  feel  your  heart  beating  now." 

"Go,"  said  Margaret,  drawing  herself  free,  and  rising. 
"  You  only  hurt  me,  Garda.  And  you  cannot,  change  me." 

But  Garda  followed  her.  "  You  adore  him.  And  he — 
And  you  give  all  that  up?  Why — it's  the  dearest  thing 
there  is,  the  dearest  thing  we  have ;  what  are  you  made  of  ?" 
She  kept  up  with  her,  walking  by  her  side. 

Margaret  was  pacing  the  room  aimlessly  ;  she  put  out  her 
arm  as  if  to  keep  Garda  off. 

The  girl  accepted  this,  moving  to  that  distance;  but  still 
she  walked  by  her  side.  "And  don't  you  ever  think  of  the 
life  he's  leading? — the  life  you're  making  him  lead?"  sho 
went  on.  "  He's  unhappy — of  course  he  didn't  tell  me  why. 


EAST  ANGELS.  579 

He's  growing  hard  and  bitter,  he's  ever  so  much  changed ; 
remember  that  I  have  just  seen  him,  only  a  few  days  ago. 
It's  dreadful  to  have  to  say  that  he  has  changed  for  the 
worse,  because  I  like  him  so  much  ;  but  I  am  afraid  he  has, — 
yes,  he  has.  You  see  he  needs  some  one — I  like  him  so 
much." 

"  Marry  him  yourself,  then,  and  be  the  some  one,"  answer 
ed  Margaret,  sharply.  And  by  a  sudden  turn  in  her  quick 
walk  she  seemed  to  be  again  trying  to  get  rid  of  her. 

"  I  would,  if  he  would  marry  me,"  Garda  answered ;  "  yes, 
even  if  he  should  keep  on  caring  for  you  just  the  same,  for 
that  doesn't  hurt  him  in  my  eyes.  I  should  be  content  to 
come  after  you  ;  and  if  I  could  have  just  a  little  edge  of  his 
love —  But  he  wouldn't  look  at  me,  I  tell  you — though  I  tried, 
He  is  like  you,  with  him  it  is  once.  But  you  are  the  one  I 
am  thinking  of  most,  Margaret.  For  you  are  fading  away, 
and  it's  this  stifled  love  that's  killing  you;  now  I  understand 
it.  Women  do  die  of  such  feelings,  you  are  one  of  them. 
Do  you  think  you'll  have  any  praise  when  you  get  to  the 
next  world  " — here  she  came  closer — "  after  killing  yourself, 
and  breaking  down  all  the  courage  of  a  man  like  Evert,  like 
Evert — two  whole  lives  wasted — and  all  for  the  sake  of  HJI 
idea?" 

Margaret's  face  had  been  averted.  But  now  she  looked  at 
her.  "  An  idea  which  you  cannot  comprehend,"  she  said. 
And  she  turned  away  again. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  think  me  your  inferior,"  Garda  answer 
ed  ;  "  and  I  acknowledge  that  I  am  your  inferior ;  I  am  noth 
ing  compared  with  you,  I  never  was.  But  I  don't  care  what 
you  say  to  me,  I  only  want  you  to  be  happier."  She  waited 
an  instant,  then  came  up  behind  Margaret,  whose  back  was 
towards  her,  and  with  a  touch  that  was  full  of  humility,  took 
hold  of  a  little  fold  of  her  skirt.  "  Listen  a  moment,"  she 
said,  holding  it  closely,  as  if  that  would  make  Margaret  listen 
more;  "I  don't  believe  Mr.  Harold  would  oppose  a  suit  at 
all.  He  couldn't  succeed,  of  course,  no  matter  what  he  should 
do,  for  it's  all  against  him,  but  I  don't  believe  he  would  even 
try ;  he  isn't  that  sort  of  a  man  at  least,  malicious  and  petty. 
If  he  could  be  made  comfortable  here,  as  he  is  now  ?  It's 
very  far  away — Gracias-a-Dios ;  that  is,  people  think  so,  I 


580  EAST  ANGELS. 

find ;  they  thought  so  in  New  York ;  so  he  could  stay  on 
here  as  quietly  as  he  pleased,  and  it  would  make  no  differ 
ence  to  anybody.  He  could  have  everything  he  liked ;  why, 
/would  undertake  to  stay  for  a  while  at  first,  stay  and  amuse 
him,  play  checkers  and  all  that.  It's  a  pity  Mrs.  Rutherford 
dislikes  me  so,"  Garda  concluded,  in  a  tone  of  regret. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  undertake  to  marry  him,  by  way  of 
a  change?"  said  Margaret,  leaving  her  again,  with  another 
sharp  movement  that  pulled  the  dress  from  the  touch  of  the 
humble  little  hand. 

"There  are  some  things,  Margaret,  that  even  you  must  not 
say  to  me,"  Garda  answered,  smiling  bravely  and  brightly, 
though  the  tears  were  just  behind. 

And  then  Margaret's  cruel  coldness  broke;  she  came  to 
her,  took  her  hands,  and  held  them  across  her  hot  eyes. 
"  Forgive  me,  Garda,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying.  You 
don't  mean  it,  but  you  keep  turning  the  knife  irf  the  wound. 
I  shall  never  do  any  of  the  things  you  talk  of,  I  shall  go  on 
staying  here.  I  must  bear  my  life — the  life  I  made  for  my 
self,  with  my  eyes  open ;  no  one  made  it  for  me,  I  made  it 
for  myself,  and  I  must  bear  it  as  well  as  I  can.  I  have  said 
cruel  things,  but  it  was  because — "  She  dropped  the  girl's 
hands.  "  I  have  always  thought  you  so — so  beautiful ;  and 
if  you  care  for  him,  as  you  now  tell  me  you  do,  what  more 
natural  than  that  he — "  But  she  could  not  finish,  her  face 
contracted  with  a  quiver,  and  took  on  suddenly  and  strangely 
the  tints  of  age. 

"  I  am  not  worthy  to  tie  your  shoe !"  cried  Garda,  in  her 
soft  voice,  which  even  in  high  excitement  could  not  rise  above 
its  sweet  tones. 

But  Margaret  had  controlled  herself  again,  the  spectre  face 
had  vanished.  "  When  you  tell  me  that  he  has  changed  so 
much,  that  he  is  growing  harsh,  hard, — that  is  the  worst  for 
me,"  she  said.  "  I  can  bear  everything  about  myself,  every 
thing  here;  but  I  cannot  bear  that."  She  paused.  "Men 
are  all  alike" — she  began  again.  Then  she  put  that  aside 
too — her  last  bitterness.  "  Garda,"  she  resumed,  "  I  shall  go 
on  living  here,  as  I  have  said;  and  it  is  for  always;  I  am,  I 
intend  to  be,  as  far  removed  from  his  life  as  though  I  were 
dead.  And  now — if  you  will  marry  him  ?  You  are  so  beau- 


EAST  ANGELS.  581 

tiful  he  cannot  help  but  love  you,  you  needn't  be  afraid! 
You  must  never  come  here — I  tell  you  that  in  the  beginning. 
And  he  must  never  come.  But" — she  moved  swiftly  for 
ward  and  took  the  girl  in  her  arms  with  a  passionate  tender 
ness — »  but  your  little  children,  Garda,  if  you  should  have 
any,  if  they  could  come,  it  would  be  good  for  rne  ;  my  life 
would  not  be  so  bitter  and  hard;  I  should  be  a  better  wom 
an  than  I  am  now,  yes,  I  am  sure  I  should  be  better."  She 
put  her  face  down  upon  Garda's  for  a  moment.  Garda  could 
feel  how  very  cold  it  was. 

Then  she  released  her;  she  began  moving  about  the  room, 
setting  the  chairs  in.  their  places,  she  extinguished  some  of 
the  candles;  she  was  quite  calm. 

Garda  stood  where  she  had  been  left ;  her  face  was  hidden. 

Margaret  crossed  to  one  of  the  windows  and  threw  open 
the  shutters ;  the  cool  night  air  rushed  in,  laden  with  the  per 
fume  of  flowers.  Then  she  came  back  to  Garda.  "  I  will 
go  with  you  to  your  room,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  very,  very  late." 
She  put  her  arm  round  her  to  lead  her  away.  Garda  sub 
mitted,  though  still  with  her  face  hidden  ;  they  went  together 
down  the  hall. 

There  was  a  light  in  Garda's  room.  Margaret  kissed  her 
before  leaving  her.  "Good-night,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  Garda  murmured. 

"Ashamed?" 

"  Ashamed  of  being  glad" 

Margaret  went  swiftly  away,  she  almost  seemed  to  flee. 
Garda,  standing  on  her  lighted  threshold,  heard  her  door  close. 
Then  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  bolt  within,  as  it  was  shot 
sharply  forward. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


"  DID  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  absurd  ?"  said  Aunt  Ka- 
trina.  "  How  she  will  look  at  sea ! — Those  prunello  gaiters 
of  hers  on  deck  when  the  wind  blows !" 

"Jolly  old  soul,"  commented  Lanse.  He  was  playing  soli 
taire,  and  had  paused  reflectively  with  a  card  in  his  hand 


582  EAST  ANGELS. 

while  he  gazed  at  the  spread-out  piles  before  him.  "Jolly 
old  soul ! — I  am  glad  she  is  going  to  see  something  at  last, 
before  she  dies." 

"What  expressions  you  do  use,  Lanse !  one  would  think 
she  was  ninety.  As  for  seeing,  she'll  see  nothing  but  Garda 
Thome,  and  have  her  hands  full  at  that." 

"  Her  eyes,  you  mean,"  said  Lanse,  slipping  his  card  deftly 
upon  a  pile  which  contained  already  its  legal  three,  and  fit 
ting  the  edges  accurately  as  he  did  so  to  those  of  the  card 
beneath,  in  order  to  cheat  himself  with  the  greater  skill. 

Aunt  Katrina's  comments  were  based  upon  some  recent 
tidings.  Betty  had  journeyed  down  to  East  Angels  that  af 
ternoon  in  the  black  boat  of  Uncle  Cato  to  convey  to  her 
dearest  Kate  a  wonderful  piece  of  news :  Garda  had  suddenly 
decided  to  go  abroad  for  the  winter — to  Italy,  and  she  had 
written  from  New  York,  where  she  was  staying  with  Lish-cr 
and  Trude,  to  beg  Betty  to  come  north  immediately  and  go 
with  her,  "like  the  dear,  kind  old  aunt"  that  she  was.  Bet 
ty's  mind,  driven  into  confusion  by  this  sudden  proposal,  was 
a  wild  mixture  of  the  sincerest  regrets  at  leaving  dear  Kate, 
of  the  sincerest  gratification  at  this  proof  of  Garda's  attach 
ment,  and  the  sincerest  (and  most  dreadful)  apprehensions 
concerning  the  ocean  passage. 

Garda's  second  visit  at  East  Angels — a  very  short  one — 
had  terminated  only  six  weeks  before ;  at  that  time  she  had 
no  intention  of  going  to  Italy.  This,  then,  was  some  sudden 
new  idea,  and  Lanse  had  amused  himself  imagining  causes 
for  it.  He  imagined  them  on  such  a  scale  of  splendor,  how 
ever,  that  Aunt  Katrina  declared  at  last  that  she  could  listen 
to  no  more  of  them ;  they  were  too  ridiculously  silly. 

She  brought  herself  to  listen,  however,  when,  four  months 
later,  Betty,  having  survived  a  recrossing  of  the  ocean,  came 
down  to  East  Angels,  with  the  lion  carpet-bag,  to  tell  "  every 
thing"  to  her  friend. 

Poor  Betty  had  been  so  homesick  in  foreign  lands  that 
Garda  had  not  had  the  heart  to  detain  her  longer.  "  And 
she  said  that  she  had  hoped  I  would  stay  with  her  a  long 
time,  perhaps  always,"  narrated  Betty.  "  And  of  course  I 
enjoyed  being  in  New  York  ever  so  much,  of  course ;  and 
Rome  too — Rome  was  so  instructive.  But  then  you  know, 


EAST  ANGELS.  583 

as  I  told  the  dear  child,  Rome  is  not  my  home,  nor  can  I 
make  it  so  at  my  age,  of  course." 

"  It's  not  age ;  it's  experience,"  said  Kate. 

"  Very  likely  you're  right,  Kate  ;  but  then,  you  know,  I've 
had  so  little  experience ;  since  I  came  from  Georgia  with 
Mr.  Carew,  ever  so  many  years  ago,  I've  never  put  my  foot 
outside  of  Florida  until  now,  and  I  suppose  I've  grown  like 
those  Swiss  exiles  we  read  about,  who  can't  hear  that  call  for 
cows,  you  know,  that  Ranz  something,  without  getting  so 
homesick,  though  to  everybody  else  it's  a  dreadfully  yelling 
sound, — though  I  ought  to  say,  too,  that  as  we've  next  to  no 
cows  in  Florida,  the  comparison  isn't  a  very  good  one ;  but 
then  there  were  next  to  no  cows  in  Rome  either,  for  that 
matter,  though  it  was  there  that  a  cow  brought  up  little 
Castor  and  Pollux,  who  built  the  city — no,  no,  I'm  mistaken, 
that  was  Romulus  and  Remus  ;  Castor  and  Pollux  tamed  the 
horses  on  the  Quirinal ;  but  in  either  case  it  shows  that  the 
milk  must  have  been  good,  because  they  were  so  strong,  you 
know." 

"Are  we  talking  of  milk,  Elizabeth?"  asked  Kate,  in  despair. 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Elizabeth,  good-naturedly ; 
"  how  could  you  think  so  ?  I  know  you  never  cared  for 
milk  in  the  least,  Kate,  and  I  shouldn't  be  likely,  therefore, 
to  bring  it  up. — And  right  there  in  the  Forum  I'd  see  my 
own  flower-garden.  And  in  the  Colosseum  I'd  see  our  little 
church  here,  and  even  hear  the  bell." 

"  Absurd  !"  said  Kate. 

"I  reckon  it  was  absurd,"  Betty  agreed,  though  wiping 
her  eyes  at  the  same  time.  "And  at  the  Vatican,  there 
among  the  statues,  Kate — do  you  know  I  was  always  seeing 
likenesses  to  you." 

"  Oh,  well — that,"  responded  Kate,  as  if  there  might  be 
grounds  for  associations  of  that  nature.  "  And  Garda 
Thome,  by  this  time,  I  suppose,  is  living  there  quite  alone  ?" 
she  went  on,  comfortably. 

"  Oh  no  ;  she  has  a  companion,  Madame  Clementer." 

"dementi,"  said  Lanse ;  "I  know  her  —  an  American, 
Miss  Morris.  He  ran  through  all  her  money." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  one ;  the  Bogarduses  arranged  it  by  let 
ter  ;  they  know  her  very  well." 


584  EAST  ANGELS. 

"  She's  a  cousin  of  theirs,  and  a  very  nice  woman  ;  about 
fifty-five.  Nothing  could  be  more  respectable,"  Lanse  went 
on,  glancing  with  an  amused  eye  at  Aunt  Katrina's  unwilling 
face.  "  You  were  there  some  time,  Mrs.  Carew ;  I  suppose 
you  saw  some  men  ?" 

"The  population  seemed  to  me  to  consist  principally  of 
men,"  Betty  answered,  naively  ;  "  the  streets  were  always 
crowded  with  them." 

"That's  because  the  Italian  women  don't  knock  about. 
But  some  of  these  men  came  to  see  you,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  mean  gentlemen  ?  Yes,  a  good  many  came ; 
but  for  my  part,  /  was  always  gladdest  to  see  Adolfo  Torres. 
He  wasn't  so  foreign." 

"  Is  lie  there  ?"  said  Lanse,  with  a  delighted  laugh ;  "  has 
he  followed  her  all  that  distance  ?  Bravo  for  Adolfo  !" 

"  I  don't  see  where  he  got  the  money  to  go,"  remarked 
Aunt  Katrina,  with  one  of  her  well-bred  sniffs. 

Betty  flushed  at  this.  "  Mr.  Torres  has  property,  Kate," 
she  said,  with  dignity.  Then  her  usual  humble  sincerity 
came  back  to  her.  "  I  don't  reckon  it's  much,"  she  went 
on.  "  I've  no  idea  where  he  stayed,  nor  anything  about  it ; 
but  I'm  sure,  whenever  he  came  to  see  us,  he  always  looked 
like  a  dignified  gentleman." 

"Naturally,"  said  Lanse.  "Because  that  is  what  he  is. 
Well,  I  give  him  my  vote." 

As  this  conversation  was  beginning,  word  was  brought  to 
Margaret  that  Mr.  Winthrop  was  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
wished  to  see  her.  Celestine  was  the  messenger. 

"Has  he  come  to  stay?  You  and  Looth  must  put  the 
east  room  in  order,  then,"  said  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
"  Have  you  told  the  others?" 

"  Yes'rn,"  said  Celestine,  disappearing. 

When  Margaret  entered  the  drawing-room,  twenty  min 
utes  later,  Winthrop  was  there  alone.  Celestine  had  told 
nobody.  Minerva  Poindexter,  meanwhile,  sweeping  a  re 
mote  corridor,  had  had  a  tussle  with  her  conscience ;  and 
gagged  it. 

"  No  one  here  ?"  said  Margaret  in  surprise.  "  Where  are 
the  others?" 

"  I  didn't  come  to  see  the  others,"  Winthrop  answered. 


EAST  ANGELS.  585 

Though  many  months  bad  elapsed  since  their  last  meet 
ing,  no  greeting  passed  between  them  beyond  this;  they  did 
not  even  shake  hands.  She  bad  seen  upon  entering  that  an 
gry  feelings  bad  possession  of  him,  that  this  time  he  would 
not  go  through  any  of  the  forms.  This  made  her  only  the 
more  anxious  to  keep  to  them  strictly  herself. 

"  I  hope  you  have  come  to  stay  with  us  a  while,"  she  said. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  this.  "Shall  we  go  out — to  the 
garden,  or  somewhere  ?  I  wish  to  see  you  alone." 

"  We  couldn't  well  be  more  alone  than  this,  could  we  ?" 
she  answered,  looking  about  the  room. 

"  But  they  may  interrupt  us.  If  they  do,  I  shall  ask  you 
very  soon  to  come  out,  and  you  must  come."  He  crossed 
the  room  and  closed  the  door.  "  You  got  my  letter  ?" 

"  I  was  answering  it  when  you  came." 

"I  didn't  want  a  written  answer.  It  came  over  me,  after 
I  had  sent  mine,  that  I  knew  just  what  you  would  write  in 
reply — the  very  words.  Not  that  you  have  written  so  often  ; 
in  two  years  and  a  half  I  think  three  notes  of  six  lines  each 
would  about  sum  it  up.  But  I  know  every  written  phrase 
of  yours  just  the  same ;  so  I  have  come  to  get  an  answer  in 
person — a  more  sensible  and  reasonable  one." 

She  did  not  say,  "  There  will  be  nothing  more  reasonable." 
It  was  what  was  in  her  thoughts  ;  but  it  seemed  wiser  not 
to  express  her  thoughts  now. 

"  How  changed  you  are  I"  he  said ;  "  even  in  eighteen 
months  so  much  changed." 

"No  one  here  sees  such  a  change."  She  faced  his  gaze 
proudly. 

"  The  same  old  look  !  Of  course  they  don't ;  so  long  as 
you  keep  everything  going  smoothly  and  everybody  com 
fortable,  they  don't  want  to  see  any  ;  they  never  will  see  one 
till  you're  in  your  coffin." 

He  was  still  gazing  at  her.  "Arrange  your  life  as  you 
like,"  he  Avent  on,  abruptly,  "but  at  least  come  away  from 
here.  You  can  do  that.  And  I  shall  insist  upon  it." 

The  fear  of  him  that  she  had  felt  from  the  time  of  enter 
ing  was  increasing.  He  had  never  looked  quite  as  he  did  at 
this  moment;  his  voice  had  never  had  quite  these  tones  be 
fore.  The  long  months  that  had  stretched  into  years  had 


586  EAST  ANGELS. 

made  no  difference,  then  ;  everything  was  to  be  as  hard,  per 
haps  harder  than  ever ! 

Her  fear  caused  her  to  answer  with  something  like  appeal. 
"But  I  do  not  wish  to  go  away.  I  like  it  much  better  here 
than  I  should  like  being  in  New  York.  It  is  quiet;  I  am  of 
some  use ;  I  am — I  am  really  contented  here." 

"  Since  when  have  you  learned  to  speak  so  falsely  ?  You 
are  probably  afraid  of  me !  You  see,  and  correctly,  that  I 
am  not  to  be  put  off  this  time,  as  I  was  when  I  came  before 
— put  off  with  a  little  preaching,  a  few  compliments  and  ex 
hortations.  You  are  afraid  I  shall  smash  the  pretty  glass 
walls  you  have  built  up  round  your  sham  life  here,  your 
charming  domestic  life,  your  happy  home  circle." 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  any  right  to  take  that  tone." 

"  Yes,  I  have ;  the  right  of  our  love." 

"  We  must  forget  that.  We  are  not  growing  any  young 
er;  at  least  I  am  not.  Men  are  different,  perhaps." 

W7inthrop  laughed.  "  Very  well  done,  Margaret.  But 
not  well  enough.  Yon  arc  trying  to  pretend  that  you  have 
outlived  it ;  and  that  I  have.  But  our  two  faces  contradict 
that;  yours  is  wasted  and  drawn,  and  look  at  me — have  I 
the  appearance  of  a  man  who  is  even  moderately  happy  ?" 

She  had  not  trusted  herself  to  look  at  him  much  ;  she 
remembered  too  vividly  Garda's  description  —  "changed," 
"  bitter,"  "  hard."  But  involuntarily  now  she  did  look  at 
him.  And  she  saw  all  that  Garda  had  described ;  and  more. 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  ?"  she  asked,  hurriedly. 

"  Come  away  from  here." 

"But  where?" 

"  Anywhere  you  like. — Where  I  could  see  you  sometimes." 

"  No— no." 

"Very  well,  then;  anywhere  you  like.  And  I  won't  see 
you." 

"It  wouldn't  do  me  any  good  !"  These  words  burst  from 
her  almost  unconsciously.  She  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair. 

He  came  and  seated  himself  near  her  in  silence. 

"  You  saw  Garda  before  she  went  abroad?"  she  said,  be 
ginning  ao-ain. 

"  Yes."' 

"She  wished  to  see  you,  I  know." 


EAST  ANGELS.  587 

"  How  you  say  that — how  timidly  !  Garda,  at  least,  is  not 
troubled  by  timidity." 

"Perhaps  you  will  go  abroad  again  yourself?" 

"  Not  to  sec  Mrs.  Lucian  Spenser !  Would  you  like  to 
have  me  go  ?"  he  added. 

"Yes." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  It's  a  plan,  is  it? — you 
wouldn't  have  spoken  of  her  otherwise.  I  see ;  I  am  grow 
ing  older,  I'm  lonely,  I'm  sad;  perhaps  I'm  wicked.  A 
1  home,'  therefore,  is  the  thing  I  need  —  you  women  think 
so  much  of  a  home — and  so  you've  planned  this.  It's  very 
ingenious.  But  unfortunately  I  don't  fall  in  with  it.  Don't 
waste  any  more  time  talking  of  Garda,"  he  said,  sharply. 

Margaret's  head  was  bent. 

"  It  isn't  possible  that  you  have  thought  I  could  care  for 
her,  Margaret — such  a  woman  as  that.  Why,  you're  trem 
bling  "  (he  rose  and  pulled  down  her  shielding  hand),  "  you're 
relieved  !  You  have  really  dreamed,  then,  that  it  might  hap 
pen  !" 

"  It  makes  me  hate  myself,"  he  went  on,  a  mist  showing 
itself  in  his  eyes  —  "to  see  your  unselfishness ;  you  have 
thought  of  this  because  you  believe  that  it  would  be  better 
for  me,  that  I  should  be  happier.  And  if  you  had  succeeded, 
if  it  could  really  have  come  about,  how  you  would  have  lived 
up  to  it !  To  the  very  last  hour  of  your  life  you  wouldn't 
have  swerved." 

lie  looked  at  her;  he  seemed  to  be  studying  her.  Then 
he  grew  sarcastic  again,  perhaps  on  account  of  her  continued 
silence.  "  Garda,  on  her  side,  is  perfectly  capable  of  having 
a  real  affection  for  me  for  a  while — real  while  it  lasts ;  she 
hasn't  any  especial  mission  on  her  hands  just  now,  so  that 
would  have  done  very  well.  You  planned  it  together,  I  sup 
pose.  You  are  certainly  a  wonderful  pair !  May  I  ask  how 
far  did  the  plan  extend?  You  would  have  pampered  me  up 
between  you  (she  temporarily);  you  would  have  arranged 
what  was  '  best'  for  my  life,  like  two  Sunday-school  teachers 
over  a  case  of  reform  !  Once  and  for  all,  Margaret,  let  us 
put  Edgarda  Thome  aside;  she  lias  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  matters  that  lie  between  you  and  me ;  she  is  no 
more  to  me  than  an  old  glove." 


588  EAST  ANGELS. 

He  walked  about  the  room  impatiently.  "  Of  course  I 
might  He  to  yon,"  he  went  on ;  "  I  might  say  that  if  you 
persist  in  your  present  course — keeping  me  entirely  off,  sep 
arating  your  life  utterly  from  mine — I  should  go  to  the  bad. 
But  it  wouldn't  be  true ;  I  shall  not  go  to  the  bad,  unless  be 
coming  hard  and  disagreeable  is  that.  Later,  if  you  still  go 
on  in  this  way,  I  shall  become  callous  and  selfish  probably — 
self-indulgent.  I  shall  never  be  vicious  or  low-lived,  I  hope ; 
but  I  am  not  a  woman,  I  can't  live  on  air — as  you  will  do. 
Don't  see  me  at  fifty-five — I'll  give  you  that  advice !  For 
you  will  always  remain  the  same;  with  the  exception  of 
growing  paler  and  thinner,  you'll  be  the  same  till  you  die; 
and  I  really  think  it  would  be  a  greater  blow  to  you  than 
even  what  we're  bearing  now  to  find  me  like  that — selfish, 
fond  of  my  ease,  slow  to  disturb  myself  for  anybody,  might 
ily  taken  up  with  my  dinner! — But  you  don't  believe  in  the 
least  what  I  am  saying  to  you;  I  can't -bring  it  before  you. 
I  love  you — love  you  at  this  moment  with  every  fibre  of  my 
being."  He  sat  down  and  folded  his  arms  doggedly.  "  But 
I  shall  not  stay  sentimental ;  no  man  does  after  a  certain  age, 
though  women  always  expect  it,  as  you  expect  it  now." 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do  2"  he  continued,  as  she  did 
not  answer  any  of  this. 

"Just  what  I  have  been  doing." 

"You  have  no  mercy,  then?"  He  looked  at  her  with  an 
gry  gloom. 

"  If  I  can  bear  it,  surely  you  can." 

"  No,  that  doesn't  follow.  Women  are  better  than  men  ; 
in  some  things  they  are  stronger.  But  that's  because  they 
are  sustained — the  ones  of  your  nature  at  least — by  their  ter 
rible  love  of  self-sacrifice;  I  absolutely  believe  there  are  wom 
en  who  like  to  be  tortured  !" 

"Yes  —  sometimes  we  like  it,"  answered  the  woman  he 
spoke  to,  a  beautiful,  mysterious,  exalted  expression  showing 
itself  for  a  moment  in  her  eyes. 

He  sprang  from  his  chair.  But  the  look  of  his  face  as  he 
came  towards  her,  frightened  her,  brought  her  back  to  the 
actual  present ;  moving  hurriedly,  she  put  her  hand  upon  the 
cord  of  the  bell. 

"No,  not  that,  that's  cruel,  that  humiliates   me  —  don't, 


EAST  ANGELS.  589 

don't.  See,  it  isn't  necessary,  I  shall  be  perfectly  quiet  and 
reasonable  now.  Here  are  two  chairs;  come  and  sit  down. 
Now  listen.  I  will  do  all  that  is  proper  here — see  the  peo 
ple,  and  make  a  little  visit ;  then  I  will  go  back  to  New  York. 
After  that,  in  due  time,  you  must  tell  them  that  you  are  tired 
of  Florida,  that  you  need  a  change ;  you  certainly  do  need  a 
change,  as  a  plain  matter-of-fact;  and  I  see  no  reason,  in 
any  case,  for  your  spending  your  entire  life  here.  Of  course 
it  will  be  an  uphill  undertaking  to  get  Aunt  Katrina  started ; 
she  will  believe  that  it  would  kill  her  instantly.  But  it  won't 
kill  her;  she  is  stronger  than  she  thinks.  As  for  Lanse,  he 
can  make  the  journey  up  as  well  as  he  made  it  down ;  he's 
certainly  no  worse.  Both  of  them,  if  you  are  firm,  will  end 
by  doing  as  you  wish,  because  you  are  indispensable  to  their 
comfort.  The  thing  is  that  you  must  hold  firm.  Once  es 
tablished  in  New  York,  or  near  there,  I  could  see  you  now 
and  then — I  mean  see  you  all ;  Lanse  would  ask  nothing  bet 
ter  than  to  have  me  about  again.  I  speak  in  all  honor,  Mar 
garet — I'm  not  a  vile  hypocrite,  whatever  else  I  may  be.  I 
am  growing  older;  see,  I  will  take  your  view  of  that,  you  fire 
growing  older  too;  why  shouldn't  we,  then,  see  each  other  in 
this  way  at  intervals?  where  would  be  the  harm?  It  would 
brighten  our  lives  a  little;  and  as  for  the  *  home '  you  wished 
me  to  have,  its  good  influences  and  all  that,  I  could  find  them 
there." 

"  I  shall  never  see  you  again,"  Margaret  answered,  strange 
ly.  She  had  not  seated  herself  in  the  chair  he  had  placed 
for  her;  she  stood  with  her  hand  resting  upon  its  back. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  All  you  have  said  I  believe ;  I  believe  you  Would  keep  to 
it,  carry  it  out.  But  with  me  it  would  be  different — it  would 
be  too  much  pain  ;  I  would  far  rather  not  see  you  at  all.  I 
love  you  too  much,"  she  added.  A  burning  blush  covered 
her  face  and  throat  as  she  met  his  eyes.  Then  it  faded  sud 
denly  to  so  deathly  a  white  that  his  old  fear  rushed  back 
upon  him.  He  had  almost  forgotten  this  fear  in  the  lapse 
of  time ;  but  these  terrible  waves  of  color  and  of  pallor,  these 
overwhelming  emotions  that  made  her  unable  to  stand — they 
brought  back  to  him  the  old  conviction,  "  She  has  no  strength, 
she  will  not  be  able  to  endure  it ;  she  will  die !"  lie  took 


590  EAST  ANGELS. 

her  in  his  arms  and  laid  her  down  upon  the  cushions  of  a 
couch,  made  sick  at  heart  as  lie  did  so  by  the  lightness  of  her 
weight.  Anything  but  that — that  she  should  go  from  earth 
forever;  anything  but  that! 

As  he  bent  over  her,  his  heart  full  of  his  dread,  she  looked 
up  ;  she  saw  his  fear. 

"  Why — I  am  not  dying,"  she  said,  reassuringly,  smiling 
for  an  instant  with  almost  a  mother's  sweetness;  "it  is  noth 
ing, — only  the  faintness  that  very  often  seizes  me;  it  has 
been  so  all  my  life,  it  amounts  to  nothing.  And  now  will 
you  go  ?  And  promise  me  not  to  come  back  ?" 

"Margaret — that  is  too  much." 

"It  is  the  only  way;  surely  I  have  shown  you — told  you 
— in  all  its  shame,  my  weakness."  And  again  came  the 
burning  blush. 

He  had  knelt  down  beside  her.  "  Weakness !"  He  bowed 
his  head  upon  her  hand. 

"  Go,"  she  repeated  softly. 

"  I  cannot  go !" 

She  tried  to  rise,  but  he  prevented  her.  "  Margaret !"  he 
said. 

"  And  must  I  always  be  the  one  ?"  She  did  rise,  she  moved 
from  his  grasping  hands.  "  You  talk  about  my  dying — that 
would  make  me  die,  to  have  you  pursue  me,  ungenerously, 
brutally,  when  I  have  already  such  hard  pain  to  bear."  With 
a  step  that  swayed  with  her  exhaustion  she  went  towards  the 
door.  "  I  can  only  appeal  to  you,  Evert,"  she  said  when  she 
had  reached  it,  looking  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder — "  I 
can  only  appeal  to  you  not  to  try  to  see  me  again.  It  will 
be  the  same  with  me  always,  and  so  I  appeal  to  you  for  al 
ways.  I  shall  never  change ;  and  I  should  never  yield ;  so 
you  can  see  that  it  will  only  make  me  suffer  more." 

She  turned  the  latch.  "Perhaps,  sometime  —  the  years 
that  we  give  up  to  duty  here — "  She  went  hastily  out. 

They  never  met  again. 


EAST  ANGELS.  591 


EPILOGUE. 

IT  was  eight  years  later  at  East  Angels.  Penelope  and 
Middleton  had  come  down  for  an  afternoon  visit ;  Betty  was 
already  there,  Betty  was  generally  there. 

Dr.  Kirby  had  just  gone ;  he*  had  brought  to  them  the 
surprising  tidings  that  Garda  had  turned  her  back  upon  her 
many  admirers,  and  was  about  to  bestow  her  hand  upon 
Adolfo  Torres. 

The  Doctor  having  gone,  "Til  believe  it  when  I  sec  it!" 
Kate  declared. 

"  But,  Kate  dear,  you  can't  see  all  the  way  to  Paris,"  said 
Betty. 

That  same  evening,  Margaret  was  sitting  beside  the  lamp 
in  the  drawing-room,  embroidering  something  which  took 
her  close  attention. 

Lanse  had  had  his  sofa  drawn  up  to  the  open  door  of  the 
little  high  balcony;  he  was  smoking  and  looking  out  upon 
the  moonlight. 

He,  too,  spoke  of  the  rumor  about  Garda.  "  I  wonder 
why  Evert  didn't  try  for  her?"  he  said. 

His  wife  made  no  reply. 

"Never  married  all  this  time — yet  he  was  the  very  fellow 
for  it!  Steady,  you  know  ;  good  ;  a  little  stupid.  It's  out 
rageous  the  way  he  treats  us — never  coming  here !" 

Lanse  was  still  crippled  ;  but  his  face  remained  handsome. 
Save  for  his  crippled  condition,  he  appeared  well  and  strong. 

After  a  while  he  turned  from  the  moonlight  and  sat  idly 
watching  his  wife's  hand  move  over  her  work  "Do  you 
know  that  you've  grown  old,  Madsjc,  before  your  time?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  Well — you're  a  good  woman,"  said  Lanse. 


THE    END. 


BEN-HUE:  A  TALE  OF  THE  CHRIST. 


By  LEW.  WALLACE.     Ne\v  Edition,     pp.  552.     16mo, 

^  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Anything  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  the  leading  feature  of  this 
romance  does  not  often  appear  in  works  of  fiction.  .  .  .  Some  of  Mr.  Wai- 
luce's  writing  is  remarkable  for  its  pathetic  eloquence.  The  scenes  de 
scribed  in  the  New  Testament  are  rewritten  with  the  power  and  skill  of 
an  accomplished  master  of  style.— JV.  Y.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brilliant. 
We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes;  we  witness  a  sea- 
fight,  a  chariot-race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Roman  galley,  domestic  in 
teriors  at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the  tribes  of  the  desert;  pal 
aces,  prisons,  the  haunts  of  dissipated  Roman  youth,  the  houses  of  pious 
families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  exciting  incident;  everything  is 
animated,  vivid,  and  glowing. — JV.  Y.  Tribune. 

From  the  opening  of  the  volume  to  the  very  close  the  reader's  interest 
will  be  kept  at  the  highest  pitch,  and  the  novel  will  be  pronounced  by  all 
one  of  the  greatest  novels  of  the  day. — Boston  Post. 

It  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  as  though  born  of  an  Eastern  sage,  and  there 
is  sufficient  of  Oriental  customs,  geography,  nomenclature,  etc.,  to  greatly 
strengthen  the  semblance.— fioston  Commonwealth. 

"Ben-Hur"  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  it  evinces  careful  study  of  the  period  in  which  the  scene  is  laid, 
and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  realize  the 
nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Roman  life  at 
Antioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent. — Examiner,  N.  Y. 

It  is  really  Scripture  history  of  Christ's  time  clothed  gracefully  and 
delicately  in  the  flowing  and  loose  drapery  of  modern  fiction.  .  .  .  Few  late 
works  of  fiction  excel  it  in  genuine  ability  and  interest. — JV.  Y.  Graphic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  delightful  books.  It  is  as  real  and 
warm  as  life  itself,  and  as  attractive  as  the  grandest  and  most  heroic 
chapters  of  history. — Indianapolis  Journal. 

The  book  is  one  of  unquestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un 
wonted  interest  by  many  readers  who  are  weary  of  the  conventional  novel 
and  romance. — Boston  Journal. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

The  above  work  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States 
or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


THE   BREAD-WINNERS. 

A  Social  Study.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 


One  of  the  strongest  and  most  striking  stories  of  the  last  ten  years.  .  .  . 
The  work  of  a  very  clever  man ;  it  is  told  with  many  lively  strokes  of  hu 
mor  ;  it  sparkles  with  epigram ;  it  is  brilliant  with  wit.  .  .  .  The  chief 
characters  in  it  are  actually  alive ;  they  are  really  flesh  and  blood ;  they 
are  at  once  true  and  new ;  and  they  are  emphatically  and  aggressively 
American.  The  anonymous  author  has  a  firm  grip  on  American  character. 
He  has  seen,  and  he  has  succeeded  in  making  us  see,  facts  and  phases  of 
American  life  which  no  one  has  put  into  a  book  before.  .  .  .  Interesting, 
earnest,  sincere  ;  fine  in  its  performance,  and  liner  still  in  its  promise. — 
Saturday  Review,  London. 

A  worthy  contribution  to  that  American  novel-literature  which  is  at  the 
present  day,  on  the  whole,  ahead  of  our  own. — Pall  Mall  Gazette,  London. 

Praise,  and  unstinted  praise,  should  be  given  to  "The  Bread-Winners." 
—N.  Y.  Times. 

It  is  a  novel  with  a  plot,  rounded  and  distinct,  upon  which  every  episode 
has  a  direct  bearing.  .  .  .  The  book  is  one  to  stand  nobly  the  test  of  im 
mediate  re-reading. —  Critic,  N.  Y. 

It  is  a  truly  remarkable  book. — N.  Y.  Journal  of  Commerce. 

As  a  vigorous,  virile,  well-told  American  story,  it  is  long  since  we  have 
had  anything  as  good  as  u  The  Bread-Winncrs." — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Every  page  of  the  book  shows  the  practised  hand  of  a  writer  to  whom 
long  use  has  made  exact  literary  expression  as  easy  and  spontaneous  as 
the  conversation  of  some  of  those  gifted  talkers  who  are  at  once  the 
delight  and  the  envy  of  their  associates.  .  .  .  We  might  mention  many 
scenes  which  seem  to  us  particularly  strong,  but  if  we  began  such  a 
catalogue  v/e  should  not  know  where  to  stop. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

Within  comparatively  few  pages  a  story  which,  as  a  whole,  deserves  to 
be  called  vigorous,  is  tersely  told.  .  .  .  The  author's  ability  to  depict  the 
mental  and  moral  struggles  of  those  who  are  poor,  and  who  believe  them 
selves  oppressed,  is  also  evident  in  his  management  of  the  strike  and  in 
his  delineation  of  the  characters  of  Sam  Sleeny,  a  carpenter's  journeyman, 
and  Ananias  Offit,  the  villain  of  the  story.  .  .  .  The  characters  who  bring 
into  play  and  work  out  the  author's  ideas  are  all  well  drawn,  and  their  in 
dividuality  maintained  and  developed  with  a  distinctness  that  shows  inti 
mate  familiarity  with  the  subject,  as  well  as  unquestionable  ability  in  deal 
ing  with  it. — N.  Y.  Evening  Telegram. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

HAUPEII  &  BROTHERS  will  send  the  above  work  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
part  of  the  United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


UPON  A  CAST. 


A  Novel.    By  CHARLOTTE  DUNNING,     pp.  330.     16mo, 

Cloth,  $1  00. 

It  embodies  throughout  the  expressions  of  genuine  American  frank 
ness,  is  well  conceived,  well  managed,  and  brought  to  a  delightful 
and  captivating  close.—  Albany  Press. 

The  author  writes  this  story  of  American  social  life  in  an  interest 
ing  manner.  .  .  .  The  style  of  the  writing  is  excellent,  and  the  dia 
logue  clever.—  N.  Y.  Times. 

This  story  is  strong  in  plot,  and  its  characters  are  drawn  with  a 
firm  and  skilful  hand.  They  seem  like  real  people,  and  their  acts 
and  words,  their  fortunes  and  misadventures,  are  made  to  engage  the 
reader's  interest  and  sympathy.  —  Worcester  Daily  Spy. 

The  character  painting  is  very  well  done.  .  .  .  The  sourest  cynic 
that  ever  sneered  at  woman  cannot  but  find  the  little  story  vastly 
entertaining. — Commercial  Bulletin,  Boston. 

The  life  of  a  semi-metropolitan  village,  with  its  own  aristocracy, 
gossips,  and  various  other  qualities  of  people,  is  admirably  por 
trayed.  .  .  .  The  book  fascinates  the  reader  from  the  first  page  to 
the  last. — Boston  Traveller. 

The  plot  has  been  constructed  with  no  little  skill,  and  the  charac 
ters — all  of  them  interesting  and  worthy  of  acquaintance— are  por 
trayed  with  great  distinctness.  The  book  is  written  in  an  entertain 
ing  and  vivacious  style,  and  is  destined  to  provide  entertainment  for 
a  large  number  of  readers.  —  Christian  at  Work,  N.  Y. 

One  of  the  best— if  not  the  very  best— of  the  society  novels  of  the 
season. — Detroit  Free  Press. 

Of  peculiar  interest  as  regards  plot,  and  with  much  grace  and 
freshness  of  style.— Brooklyn  Times. 

The  plot  has  been  constructed  with  no  little  skill,  and  the  characters 
— all  of  them  interesting  and  worthy  of  acquaintance — are  portrayed 
with  great  distinctness. — Episcopal  Recorder,  Philadelphia. 

A  clever  and  entertaining  novel.  It  is  wholly  social,  and  the 
theatre  is  a  small  one  ;  but  the  characters  are  varied  and  are<  drawn 
with  a  firm  hand  ;  the  play  of  human  passion  and  longing  is  well- 
defined  and  brilliant  ;  and  the  movement  is  effective  and  satisfac 
tory.  .  .  .  The  love  story  is  as  good  as  the  social  study,  making  alto 
gether  an  uncommonly  entertaining  book  for  vacation  reading. — 
Wilmington  (Del.)  Morning  News. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  will  send  the  above  work  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to 
any  part  of  the  United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BOOTS  AND  SADDLES; 

Or,  Life  in  Dakota  with  General  Ouster.  By  Mrs.  ELIZ 
ABETH  B.  OUSTER.  With  Portrait  of  General  Ouster, 
pp.  012.  12mo,  Gloth,  $1  50. 

A  book  of  adventure  is  interesting  reading,  especially  when  it  is  all  true, 
as  is  the  case  with  "  Boots  and  Saddles."  *  *  *  She  does  not  obtrude  the 
fact  that  sunshine  and  solace  went  with  her  to  tent  and  fort,  but  it  in 
heres  in  her  narrative  none  the  less,  and  as  a  consequence  "  these  simple 
annals  of  our  daily  life,"  as  she  calls  them,  are  never  dull  nor  uninterest 
ing. — Evangelist,  N.  Y. 

Mrs.  Ouster's  book  is  in  reality  a  bright  and  sunny  sketch  of  the  life 
of  her  late  husband,  who  fell  at  the  battle  of  "Little  Big  Horn."*** 
After  the  war,  when  General  Ouster  was  sent  to  the  Indian  frontier,  his 
wife  was  of  the  party,  and  she  is  able  to  give  the  minute  story  of  her 
husband's  varied  career,  since  she  was  almost  always  near  the  scene  of 
his  adventures. — Brooklyn  Union. 

We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  no  better  or  more  satisfactory  life 
of  General  Ouster  could  have  been  written.  Indeed,  we  may  as  well 
speak  the  thought  that  is  in  us,  and  say  plainly  that  we  know  of  no  bio 
graphical  work  anywhere  which  we  count  better  than  this.  *  *  *  Surely  the 
record  of  such  experiences  as  these  will  be  read  with  that  keen  interest 
which  attaches  only  to  strenuous  human  doings ;  as  surely  we  are  right 
in  saying  that  such  a  story  of  truth  and  heroism  as  that  here  told  will 
take  a  deeper  hold  upon  the  popular  mind  and  heart  than  any  work  of 
fiction  can.  For  the  rest,  the  narrative  is  as  vivacious  and  as  lightly  and 
trippingly  given  as  that  of  any  novel.  It  is  enriched  in  every  chapter  with 
illustrative  anecdotes  and  incidents,  and  here  and  there  a  little  life  story 
of  pathetic  interest  is  told  as  an  episode. — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

It  is  a  plain,  straightforward  story  of  the  author's  life  on  the  plains  of 
Dakota.  Every  member  of  a  Western  garrison  will  want  to  read  this 
book ;  every  person  in  the  East  who  is  interested  in  Western  life  will 
want  to  read  it,  too ;  and  every  boy  or  girl  who  has  a  healthy  appetite 
for  adventure  will  be  sure  to  get  it.  It  is  bound  to  have  an  army  of  read 
ers  that  few  authors  can  expect. — Philadelphia  Press. 

These  annals  of  daily  life  in  the  army  are  simple,  yet  interesting,  and 
underneath  all  is  discerned  the  love  of  a  true  woman  ready  for  any  sacri 
fice.  She  touches  on  themes  little  canvassed  by  the  civilian,  and  makes  a 
volume  equally  redolent  of  a  loving  devotion  to  an  honored  husband,  and 
attractive  as  a  picture  of  necessary  duty  by  the  soldier. —  Commonwealth, 
Boston.  

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  N.  Y. 

B3?~  HAEPEB  &  BROTIIF.US  will  send  the  above  work  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
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